v?»v v^> v™m 







k.0* 



^ % 4 > « • n 













%<, A v *^ 




vS 1 






J ^9 












* ^ 



C ^ 






v ^>°;%\ ^**fr% /^w;-^ 









G ,.^5S^^ o 
.4 r it*r& 



?rr*' ^ 



r ** 










■v. 









.**&". %/ .'2S& W A' ' 






r* o s 



i°* 












V -• >* .6** V^V V'°' ** A *° 



STORIES 



ENGLISH AND FOKEIGN LIFE. 



BT 



WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 



WITH TWENTY ENGRAVINGS. 




LONDON: V 
HENRY a. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN 



MLCCCLIII. 



/ 



■f 



G<\ 






u 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

MARGARET VON EHRENBERG, THE ARTIST- WIFE .... 1 

THE MELDRUM FAMILY 149 

SIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON 287 

THE WOODNOOK WELLS ; OR, NEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS . . 317 

LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A POOR SCHOOLMASTER . . 344 

THE HUNNYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE 368 

SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IN THE LIVES OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE . 424 

THE HUNT 442 

THE TWO SQUIRES 474 

THE POACHER'S PROGRESS 485 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Page 

MARGARET VON EHRENBERG 2 

LUDMILLA 12 

ARABELLA FLEMING 30 

LAVINIA MASSEY 36 

THE COURT-LADY 38 

THE CARNIVAL AT MUNICH 40 

FRAU MAJORIN 83 

ALTAR Of ST. ROCH 121 

DEATH AT THE BARRICADE 128 

MARGARET'S MOTHER 144 

MELDRUM'S HOME 152 

MRS. CHUTE BETHELL 288 

MINNA (SIR PETER'S PIGEON) 306 

-ALICE DAY 350 

THE HUNNYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE 378 

-A SEA VIEW 403 

• ANGELA HUNNYBUN 412 

ELLEN STRETTON 424 

KITTY TREVISHAM ... 440 

SQUIRE DIXON'S LADY 482 



MARGARET YON EHRENBERG. 



CHAPTEE I. 

GOSSIP OVEE A NEW PICTTTEE, WHICH INTEODTTCES THE EEADEE TO 
SEVEEAL NEW EEIENDS. 

It was the brightest of bright holidays in the good city of 
Munich. The bells had been ringing people all the fore- 
noon into the various churches throughout that Catholic 
town ; and now the gay crowds, enlivened by the brilliant 
costumes of peasants, were swarming out of the churches 
again. Rejoicing strains of martial music pealed down the 
broad and beautiful Ludwig Strasse from the alcove at the 
upper end, where a military band had taken its place and 
commenced the splendid overture to " Norma." Students 
in their pretty gay scarlet, green, cherry-colour, and white 
corps-caps jauntily set upon their " ambrosial locks ;" young 
painters with a dash of the mediaeval in their attire ; dandy 
young officers, with most wasp-like waists and the longest 
of jangling sabres ; and ladies and children, in all the ele- 
gance of their fresh holiday toilettes, attended by gentlemen 
in the most delicate primrose-coloured gloves, were parading 
about in the square before the musicians, or chatting in co- 
quettish groups. And now the soldiers, rolling up their 
music-books, descend from the alcove, and playing a lively 
air march across the square ; and immediately almost the gay 
throng disperses, — numbers betaking themselves to the 
Kunst-Verein (Art-Union) exhibition of paintings, each week 
exhibited in one of the galleries running along a side of the 
Hof-Garten, — that pleasant summer resort for smokers, 
coffee-drinkers, and idlers of all kinds. 

B 



2 MAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

This week there were sketches by Grenelli, exquisite 
etchings after Bichter of Dresden, a portrait of a celebrated 
poet by Kaulbach, a study by Schnorr for a new cartoon, 
and more than the usual display of pleasant genre pictures 
and fresh joyous Tyrolean landscapes. It really was an 
unusually rich exhibition. There was a portrait, too, which 
attracted minute attention. It was of a lady in an old- 
fashioned dress meditating over a book of devotion. It was 
rich in colour, and in every way very clever as a picture ; — but 
it was not alone the artistic excellence that caused thisportrait 
to be stared at, admired, and criticized. There was quite a 
murmuring around the picture. " Ah, the Baroness von 
Ehrenberg's picture ! very clever ; free handling, correct 
drawing, rich colouring, — really clever ! rich young talent ! 
but too English, too English !" muttered a wiry little critic, 
screwing up his eyes till they seemed obliterated. — " Ara- 
bella ! that's something above your hand, though : eh, my 
girl ?" remarked a young Englishman to his blooming young 
bride and her sister, as for a moment they paused before the 
picture — " Do you know, 'Bella, they say the lady who painted 
it is an Englishwoman ? I've a vast mind to have your 
portrait painted by her, my 'Bella." 

" Alphonse ! Ah ! here is the picture ! — Have you ever 
seen the artist- wife our dear Baron has picked up ? — you 
men go everywhere !" lisped a grand lady of the Court, 
smiling sweetly upon the elegant young Erenchman who 
accompanied her, and who was carrying her white silk 
parasol. "Ah, our dear Baron; they say she is a great 
fright and an Englishwoman, but prodigiously clever ! It 
was very charitable of the dear man to marry her, poor thing, 
for he'll be the making of her, — and he has the charming 
discretion not to drag her out of her own sphere. Ah ! he's 
a charming man — the dear Baron ! I'll really sit to the 
woman myself, if she does not make one a fright like herself 
in her picture." And the fine lady raised her heavy golden 
lorgnette. 

" Just the thing to engrave for my next volume of the 
' Beauty' ! " exclaimed an English printseller, stopping 
short before the portrait. " These foreigners are a deuced 
deal cleverer than us ! Where's an Englishman, say nothing 
of an Englishwoman, who would strike you out such a thing 




iyfila6aafa^' * 



THE AKTIST-W1FE. 3 

as this — par exemple ? Just suit the English taste too : 
portrait-like, yet not like a portrait ; and still without any 
nonsensical allegory, which these Germans, with all their 
cleverness in art, are only a deuced deal too fond of ! What 
that crabbed devil of a hand-writing means, I can't make 
out ; but there stands in good English letters as large as 
life, ' Baroness von Ehrenberg.'' That's the name of the 
painter, they tell me, — make it especially go down with our 
public ; must hear more about my lady the Baroness." 

" Ah ! Monsieur — sir ! Tou me permit to speak to you 
one word !" spoke a tall military-looking gentleman of some 
three or four and forty, stepping forward with a graceful 
bow. " I very much love the English nation — " 
" The devil you do, sir!" 
"Yes, the devil I do, sir." 

"Ha! ha! sir!" laughed the printseller. "Tou speak 
English well, 'pon my soid, sir." 

" I speak English a leetle, Monsieur ; because I half an 
Englishman myself. I am husband to a compatriot of yours, 
sir. Tou did speak about my lady, the Baroness, who paint 
this portrait, sir ?" 

"Tes, sir ! yes, sir !" demanded the excited printseller, 
" wonderful woman, sir !" 

" Tes, wonderful woman, as you say ; rare, very rare genie. 
She make some day much — much — how say you it ? — much 
roar-up in your country !" 

" I believe you, sir!" interrupted the delighted English- 
man ; " when this appears in the new and splendid volume 
of the ' Beauty'—" 

"All the world will declare the English lady have done some- 
thing quite magnifique — it will be quite a Catastrof in art !" 
" English lady ! English lady ! how so, sir ? how so ? 
by G-eorge ! sir, what do you mean ?" 

" I mean the Baroness von Ehrenberg — the very good 
Englishwoman of me — make much noise in your and her 
country." 

" That's an unlucky accident, sir, allow me to inform you, 
Monsieur le Baron, a very unlucky accident, her ladyship's 
English birth ; it quite alters the aspect of this matter of 
business." 

" Sir, the Baroness von Ehrenberg have no need for matter 



4 MARGARET YOJT EHREJTBERG. 

of business, sir. I have the honour to you salute !" — and 
the tall Baron turned on his heel, and was seen standing in 
a graceful attitude of respect, with his head bent upon his 
breast. This attitude, however, had no reference to the 
Englishman, but to a tall elderly gentleman who now ap- 
proached, every one falling back before him, and pausing in 
the attitude of the Baron. He had a small head, and an 
animated manner and countenance, with eyes full of singular 
intelligence and light. It was his poetic and artistic Ma- 
jesty, King Ludwig of Bavaria. His glance fell upon the 
portrait we have mentioned, and a flush passed across the 
Baron von Ehrenberg's countenance. 

"Ah, good! good! Ehrenberg," hastily observed the 
King ; " by that clever English wife of yours : however, she 
has still much to learn. But, Ehrenberg, you are a lover 
of art ; tell me who has drawn these clever sketches ; there 
is no name : these are extraordinary designs !" And con- 
trary to his usual restless manner, King Ludwig remained 
standing in perfect repose for several moments, in deep 
thought, before two lovely and highly-wrought pen-and-ink 
drawings, which, united in one frame, hung beneath the 
portrait. 

As the King stood critically examining them, the Baron's 
brow grew darker and darker : "I regret that I am unable 
to inform your Majesty of the name of the artist," replied 
the Baron, speaking in his native tongue : but the Baron's 
countenance belied his words. 

One design represented a calm glorious evening, the sun 
sinking behind a range of lovely mountains, and his last 
rays reflected in the peaceful mirror of a vast lake. Old 
trees festooned with luxurious creepers, some bowing their 
fantastically bent stems over the waters, rose in a dense 
grove, on one hand. At the foot of this grove stood a hut, 
a perfect mass of passion-flower, vine, roses, and clematis ; 
whilst a wild garden, a very tangle of weeds and flowers, 
stretched down to the lake, which united itself with the 
garden by hundreds of floating water-lilies. Seated upon 
the mossy turf of this wilderness there was a human group 
bathed in the sunlight of love and nature — a father, mother, 
and child. The parents, clasping each other's hands, gazed 
with tender joy upon the calm closed eyelids of the little 



THE AETIST-WIPE. 5 

child as it slept upon the mother's lap, a large water-lily 
grasped in its little round hand. It was a group fit to 
typify the Golden Age. 

The other design represented the same scene, but how 
differently ! It was sunrise. A cold sun gleaming through 
baleful tempest-clouds ; the lake lashed into wild waves, 
which leap and foam in anger against the fantastic stems of 
the old trees. Vanished are the hosts of happy water-lilies ! 
Torn are the festoons of gorgeous creepers ! The grove is 
shivered and shaken by winds and lightnings ! The flowers 
and lovely weeds of the garden are torn down, matted, and 
beaten into destruction! Departed is the glory and the 
joy ! The pleasant hut has been crushed by the fall of one 
of the old trees of the grove, which, lying across the ruin it 
has caused, by its net- work of branches, and by the earth 
torn up around, half conceals the demolished human home. 
Upon the sodden turf of the garden, stark and white, lies 
the corpse of the husband and father ; the wife, in the living 
death of bereavement and ruin, has cast herself upon the 
poor corpse in a speechless agony ; the child, sitting upon 
broken lilies and crushed passion-flowers, gazing around with 
a strange look of wonderment in his large eyes 

Beneath the designs were the words — 

" Life also hath her hurricanes." 

" A rich fancy — an original and graceful treatment !" re- 
marked the King, still bending over them. " There seem 
here a fresh hand and soul — whose are they ? — not your 
artist' s-wife's ? eh, Ehrenberg ?" again demanded the King. 
But the Baron had disappeared. 

This sudden disappearance of the fascinating Baron was 
much less a breach of etiquette than an English reader will 
at first imagine, as any one who is conversant with Munich 
is aware that artistic royalty there moves about the streets 
and galleries as a private individual rather than as a king. 
Therefore, the Baron von Ehrenberg having disappeared 
amid the crowd, and no longer being found at the royal 
elbow, may be readily pardoned. 

Our friend, in fact, had vanished out of the exhibition 
rooms entirely, and might have been seen gloomily smoking 
a cigar at one of the windows of the Cafe Tambosi, the much- 



6 MARGARET YOtf EHRENBERG. 

frequented cafe of the Hof-Garten, and where, beneath the 
freshly unfurled leaves of the formally planted chestnut-trees 
of the garden, in front of the cafe, seated at little tables, 
might also be seen many gay groups of gentlemen, many of 
them already — in conformity with Grerman early hours — 
dining, although it was scarcely much after one o'clock. 
Ehrenberg was a great frequenter of Tambosi's, and almost 
as familiar an object there as the great black beard of Signor 
Tambosi himself. Many an acquaintance, therefore, signed 
to him to come out into the brilliant sunshine ; many a group 
of gay officers in their blue and silver uniforms beckoned 
him, temptingly holding up their long-necked bottles of 
Rhine wine ; many a staid professorial-looking personage, in 
passing home to his dinner, caught a glimpse of the Baron's 
tall figure and moody brow, wondering at such an unusual 
expression upon his fascinatingly polite countenance, raised 
his hat in passing to wonder yet more when the Baron re- 
turned his salutation as if in a dark reverie. 

" My excellent friend !" cried the wiry little critic, return- 
ing home with an elegant young lady leaning on his arm — 
" I have the most charming of news to tell you, you ' fortu- 
nate possessor of the artist-wife,' as his Majesty King Lud- 
wig designates you ! King Ludwig has been inquiring every- 
where for you. Those two drawings hung beneath the por- 
trait painted by your excellent lady — and which, as a con- 
noisseur, allow me to observe, have ten times more genius 

than the portrait, which is but never mind ! — Those two 

clever designs are the works of the Baroness, I learn from 
my good Ludmilla here ; and his Majesty — inquiring with 
considerable interest, I can assure you, from me — learnt also 
by whom they are ! but he will not believe this, as you, it 
seems, were unconscious of the fact. — How is it, dear friend ? 
how is it ? Let us cherish this rare young talent, my good 
friend. My Ludmilla explains all by declaring the excellent 
lady Baroness intended to try an experiment upon us all by 
sending them unknown and anonymously. But clear up the 
mystery, dear and excellent friend !" 

" It would rather be for my gracious Frau Doctorin, if one 
can be permitted to use so antiquated and prosaic a title in 
addressing the fair enchantress Ludmilla," returned Ehren- 
berg, with a radiant politeness bathing every feature of his 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. 7 

aristocratic face ; — " it would be for the enchantress to un- 
veil the mystery : to nie, a discovery of infinite delight would 
it be to find in the Baroness von Ehrenberg a genius of so 
high an order as your words imply. As a portrait-painter, 
I have ever entertained the most sanguine hopes of her suc- 
cess, — that, I will confess confidentially to you ; but failure 
in art, my good and valued Herr Hofrath, is so derogatory 
to dignity, so opposed to the high standard of excellence in 
life which the true friends of my wile must ever desire for 
her, and which she desires for herself, that it has been a 
strong sense of duty, and a real proof of my earnest affection 
for her, which have prevented my seconding in any way 
essays in a branch of art where fail she must." " Leave to 
woman her distaff and her babe," remarked the Baron, in 
Latin, with a bland smile and with admiring eyes resting 
upon Ludmilla's beautiful face, all unconscious that the 
quotation was perfectly intelligible to Ludmilla, who not 
only was a good classical scholar, but was also a woman 
keenly alive to the withering influence which all such narrow- 
minded reasoning as the Baron's has upon the yet timid, be- 
cause distrusted and distrusting, energies of her sisters ; and 
she felt a more than usual bitter contempt stir within her 
against her friend's husband. 

At the end of the frescoed arcade the critic and Ludmilla 
took their leave ; the good Hofrath calling out after Ehren- 
berg, loud enough for a whole group of loungers to hear, — 
" My compliments to the Baroness. I shall look into her 
atelier some day before long, and discover what other beau- 
tiful things she has created wherewith to astonish his 
Majesty and all of us !" Ehrenberg waved his hand politely, 
smiling ; then graciously acknowledged various raised hats 
among the group of loungers who had not failed to hear the 
words of the fussy little Hofrath. 

" That confounded old gossip !" muttered Ehrenberg, 
flinging the end of his cigar against the stem of one of the 
chestnut-trees with extraordinary vigour ; "that prating old 
booby ! if ever stupidity wandered about any old wizzened 
face, and set itself upon any long wiry nose, it has done so 
upon his ! Let him in his shallow brain-pan cook other 
people's soup than mine — that's all. Let him beware of 
poking his long nose into my nest, else mayhap it will turn 



8 MAEGAEET TON EHEENBEEG. 

into a hornet's nest ! And Ludmilla too ! if she were not 
so confoundedly handsome, she should never be allowed to 
closet herself for hours with my wife as she does ! There's 
a glance of emancipation in her sharp dark eyes, and an 
extravagant idealism that is only fuel to the fire of my wife's 
absurdities about independence and perfectibility. Ha, ha ! 
independence !" laughed the fascinating Baron to himself. 
" I've my own ideas about independence — and, trust me, so 
also has the Baroness ! Does a woman's having a profes- 
sion, however, render her more or less independent of her 
husband ? The much envied and attached baronial pair Yon 
Ehrenberg will solve for themselves this mighty problem !" 
So mused the Baron, his face growing blander and blander 
as he walked along. Still he did not as usual turn down 
through the pleasant English garden towards his house in 
the Eruhlings Strasse, but sauntered on and on through the 
beautiful park-like garden, sunk in reflections, which now 
were undisturbed by the meeting with acquaintance ; as all 
Munich, except the extreme haute vole'e, was busied over the 
noontide meal. 



CHAPTEE II. 

A PEEP INTO PEITATE LIFE, AND AN UNEXPECTED LETTEE. 

Mabgaret yon Ehrenbebg, the artist-wife, meantime, had 
also been indulging in reflections. Although it was a holiday, 
she had not, as we have seen, dressed herself in her best, and 
gone out with her husband ; neither did she go out with 
any friend, male or female, as many another lady would 
have done ; neither did she go out with her child or children, 
seeing that she had none ; neither did she go into her 
kitchen, and prepare, like her neighbour in the etage below, 
a glorious Mehl-speise for her worthy spouse and self, or 
exhibit the beauty of her hands by dabbling with them after 
green salad ; neither did she go to any church to pray, nor 
yet even into the fields — as was yet more her wont — to 
pray. ]N"one of these excellent things did she do. 

The Baron had had his cup of coffee taken to him at seven 
o'clock by her own fair hands, as he lay smoking a cigar, 
and reading a novel of Paul de Koch's, in bed. Her break- 
fast of tea and cold beef-steak — an English eccentricity 
which their maid Barbette never could comprehend — had 
stood on the table, in a sitting-room adjoining the chamber. 
Here, leaning her head upon her hand, she had sipped her 
tea, eaten her beef-steak, and meditated upon certain extra- 
ordinary hieroglyphics which lay before her, a singular maze 
of strokes and blotches : now she set the paper up before her 
against the tea-pot, and half closing her eyes, a smile spread 
itself over her countenance ; then, starting up with a brisk 
step and animated manner, she entered her husband's 
chamber, to re-fill his coffee-cup, which, as she approached, 
he stretched out to her, his eye still resting upon the pages 
of his novel, and an unpleasant smile curling his lip beneath 
the thick black-brown moustache 

" You look the picture of comfort, Conrad !" said she, 
cheerily, speaking fluently in German, which was become as 
a second mother-tongue to her, " But that vile book — I'm 



10 HARGABET VON EH.RENBERG. 

tempted to toss it out of the window, except that its poison 
might corrupt the freshness of the pleasant wall-flowers and 
mignionette that the Frau Majorin has just set out in the 
court to sun themselves ! I can't conceive how you, with all 
your ideas of excellence and purity, can have patience to 
swallow, as you do, dose after dose of such mawkish trash, 
all the more mawkish because the gross rubbish is gilded 
over with sentiment and sentimentality !" 

" Margaret — queenly Margaret ! Who but you," replied 
the Baron, smiling, " can be exalte all the days of their 
life ? To you, my sweet soul ! is given the excitement of 
creative art : have patience with a poor fellow whom fate 
deprives of this bliss, and whose mind is harassed by untold 
anxieties about his own humble career. Have a little 
patience, stern Margaret ! if he descends from the joys of 
Queen Margaret's ethereal existence, to laugh at life and 
her drolleries in such ' gilded trash ' as poor Paul de Koch ; 
it only gives one zest for better things. Oh, stern censoress ! 
And what has my own ' busy bee ' been about all these 
golden morning hours ? Have you been at work upon the 
picture of your friend Ludmilla ?— That portrait is so charm- 
ing, so transcendently charming, and the bliss it is to me to 
see how my words have weighed with you with regard to 
this especial branch of your art, dear Margaret ! — yes, I am 
most anxious about your career, in truth, glorious Margaret 
—as anxious as though it were the career of the Baron von 
Ehrenberg himself!" 

" Bather more so, I sometimes fancy," laughed the 
Baroness, dryly, as she turned hastily into another room, 
her little studio. 

The Baroness did not at that moment look particularly 
like one's preconceived ideas of a German baroness — but 
now-a-days there are such things as barons without baronies 
and retainers, and baronesses without diamonds and ermine. 
At all events, if our Baron had a barony, our Baroness had 
never seen it, and if she possessed diamonds and ermine, 
this summer morning she had thought it unnecessary — as 
certainly it was — to attire herself in them. 

Our heroine looked neither English, which she was, nor 
yet a baroness, which she also was, but she looked very 
like " the Artist." She wore a long grey blouse, made of 
self-coloured mousseline-de-laine, which fitted closely round 



THE AKTIST-WIFE. 11 

the throat in delicate plaits, being relieved by a narrow- 
white linen collar ; it was confined at the waist by a cord 
and tassel, and fell in ample graceful folds of statue-like 
drapery about her feet. Her hair was golden, and very 
abundant — many would have called it red — and the super- 
ficial observer pronounced her brow low, because this golden 
hair grew deep down over the broad forehead, leaving only 
an inch or so of it visible, white and strongly developed, 
above the clearly defined and dark eye-brows. Her eyes 
were grey and very keen, not large, but with that vivid light 
in them which seems to flash down into the very core of 
your being, yet which at times have the fire of black eyes 
burning in them. But she w r as by no means handsome ; 
beautiful at times she might be, but that alone from expres- 
sion : except for her keen eyes, her very white brow, and the 
form of her hands, which, though large even for her tall 
figure, were formed like the hands of an antique Cupid or 
young Apollo, no one would have dreamed of calling her 
good-looking. 

There was not a single ornament about her, not a ring on 
her hands, except the golden wedding-ring, and ring of 
betrothal, both worn on the wedding-finger, and considerably 
larger and thicker than English marriage-rings. She looked 
decidedly a woman of the severe style, and as she gave that 
little dry laugh, her eyes shone darkly, with a severe light- 
ning within. Some way or other she seemed a little out 
of sorts. She looked not one-tenth part as pleasant as she 
had done five minutes before, when smiling over her hiero- 
glyphics. 

From behind a green curtain she pulled forth a large 
canvas, upon which in brown was drawn a landscape, — a 
bright sunrise over the hills, with a shepherd meditating in 
the foreground. 

" Let me sweeten my mind," said she to herself, " with a 
few moments' dream over my ' morning,' before carrying 
out in my own person that sequel to my picture ' noon- 
tide,' which all this past hour has been floating through my 
brain with its tempting suggestions. JNo, no — the dreams 
of pleasant morn must give place to the sternness of labour 
and noon- tide. Let me work truly whilst it is day, toiling 
for my bread, spiritual and material, in the sweat of my 



12 MARGAEET YON EEEENBEEG. 

brow, uprooting briars and thorns, and sowing undauntedly 
crops for my evening and nigbt, and for the coming celestial 
day ! How foolish to let my spirit madden and ruffle itself, 
because Conrad, in his mistaken love, would set before me, 
as the object of my life, merely that which my soul acknow- 
ledges as the means to the end. But deeds, not words, 
must convince him of this, which to myself is clear as the 
sun ; meantime his words shall work also much good in me 
- — would that mine might do the same by him ! for a sloth- 
fulness, an apathy at times seems to my over-anxious heart 
creeping upon him, and the germs of active usefulness will 
wither and turn to naught. But will not the sole salutary 
means of influence be my own steadfast adherence to my code 
of labour ? Yes, certainly ; and he shall also see how 
willingly I open my soul to the reception of advice from 
him, contrary though it be to my present mode of feeling. 
Yes ; away with thee, beloved landscape painting, and poetic 
allegory ; for a time ! I will give portraiture a fair and 
honourable trial, and even perhaps this very sacrifice may 
bring near to me those long yearned for years of Italian 
study which for ever haunt my imagination. Ah, if Conrad 
would but bestir himself about this much talked of appoint- 
ment ! It must be necessary to him — if not in a money- 
making point of view, most certainly in many others it is ! 
How many an aching care would then silence itself in my 
heart ! Yes — away with thee, dear ' Morn,' into the twilight, 
and forth palette and brushes — Conrad shall see a willing 
hand, as well as acknowledge the willing spirit !" and carol- 
ling a gay, spirit-stirring Tyrolese air, like a very daughter 
of the mountains, she set herself to work upon the portrait 
of her friend Ludmilla, a picture which she was painting 
rather to suit her husband and Ludmilla' s father's taste, 
than her own, as it was to be a present from them all to the 
old gentleman. 

The Baron von Ehrenberg, fascinating in the extreme, 
after a long and careful toilette, in which he had been 
assisted by his man Carl, looked into the studio, and over- 
whelmed her with flattering commendations — the only plea- 
sure to her in them being a certain satisfaction in the belief 
that his heart was touched by her cheerful compliance with 
his wishes. He waved his handsome hand to her at the 




f u/>mu^L 



THE AETTST-WIFE. 13 

door as lie departed, lingered there with a look of genuine 
love in his dark eyes, as she imagined ; and poor Margaret 
felt an unusual satisfaction and kindliness at her heart. 

A gentle calmness diffused itself soothingly through her 
whole artist-being, as her hand and eye mechanically wrought 
upon the picture before her, and Margaret von Ehrenberg 
was lulled into a series of those delightful waking dreams 
which formed a considerable portion of her happiness in life. 
Vision after vision, of work to be wrought out at some 
future day, floated through her brain, with a startling life 
and vividness, fresh, original, and complete, as though elabo- 
rated by hours of study, or rather complete as though worked 
from Nature's own hand. Then old faces looked in strangely, 
yet familiarly, upon her ; old voices called to her with such 
distinctness, that more than once she had startled herself by 
replying aloud to them ; the beloved words of the Bible and 
of the Poets vibrated through her brain, with new signifi- 
cance and revelation, and long-forgotten strains of music 
pealed around her : beds of violets, faded long, long years 
ago, among the mossy, ivy-covered paths of an old ruin, 
bloomed dazzling purple for her, shedding through every 
sense their delicate perfume — old green garden pathways 
were trode by her, accompanied by a fading wan spirit, who 
shone with a brighter radiance than even that of the 
September sun, as he burned and gleamed upon the waters 
of a mossy fountain, in the centre of which clambered briars 
and honeysuckles, around a bronze Triton, whose green out- 
stretched arm and shell contrasted with a grotesque beauty 
against the festooning sprays of the orange, violet, and pale 
gold autumnal tints of the creepers. Then there were old 
fern-encircled oaks and thorn-trees in lawny dells near to 
the old garden, and long, long spirit-stirring talks with a 
mild youthful face beneath the chequered shadows. There, 
too, were also restless nights, and early dawns watched in at 
a little ivy-framed turret- window in the old house, where the 
room itself was redolent of rose-leaves and lavender, and the 
eye, when it dropped from the heavens, watching the awaken- 
ing day, fell upon a grey stone terrace, where balustrades 
and low steps descended into the quaintest of old gardens, 
shadowed by elms and yew trees, above which whirled and 
fluttered above the morning mist the cawing rooks. All these 



14 MATtGAItET YON EHREKBERG. 

visions strangely mingled with the familiar sounds around 
her, sounds almost to her more unreal than the dream ones 
which filled her brain, so startingly they smote upon her in 
her quiet abstraction. Here was the tramp, tramp, of 
holiday feet upon the pavement, the joyous peal of bells 
chiming through the sunny air, the flutter of pigeons' wings, 
as, flying up before her window into the blue heavens, they 
cast a bright reflection upon the ceiling which made her 
start, and the sound of Barbette's gossip in the court-yard, 
where, setting down her green pitcher, she had a good half- 
hour's chat with the Erau Majorin's cook, much to Margaret 
von Ehrenberg's indignation. Coming forth from her dream 
of long past days, her beloved atelier even had an unfamiliar 
look, as though the room were the room of another rather 
than herself. Those sketches of new friends upon the walls 
— that oil-portrait of the fascinating Baron, those studies of 
wild Alpine peaks and ravines — her print of a wild enchanted 
forest, by Lessing — her very book-case, crammed with its 
foreign books, all were portions of a new chapter in her 
existence, which at the moment had a vague sense of astonish- 
ment for her. Again her spirit sunk back into the past ; 
the transient heavenly poetry of that old stately house and 
garden had vanished, the delirium of a dream of human love 
had vanished, but out of the dead ashes of old hopes, had, 
phoenix-wise, arisen the spirit of a higher, purer life. The 
revelation of external beauty to her soul had been but the 
forerunner of a higher revelation, that of the spiritual. The 
necessity to toil for that mother who ever appeared in her 
mind's eye as a saint of Era Angelico's, with a golden nimbus 
around her pale brows, called forth strength and powers un- 
imagined even by her own soul. The child had been inured 
to toil, and to the sight of toil, in this beloved, gentle, 
uncomplaining mother. Now, when the whole strength of 
womanhood had awoke within her, and the mother's hands 
sank impotently with her exhausted frame, the young vigorous 
hands of the daughter took up the labour with success and 
joy internal, though the external world was dark and cold. 
Days and nights even were devoted to study and to daily 
bread- winning toil — for what she learned must be immediately 
turned to account : all was severely earnest — it was a life and 
death struggle. Though full of bitterness, it was a season of 



THE AKTIST-WIFE. 15 

extraordinary vigour and wholesome excitement ; and the 
thoughts of a dark winter day, or long stifling summer one, 
passed over her desk and her easel in a close London room, 
were not among the most painful pictures that memory called 
forth. Large desires awoke with the struggling soul, and 
the monotony of their life was broken by a sudden and 
unpremeditated journey to Dresden, where Margaret was 
commissioned to copy several pictures. The first months 
of their sojourn in this foreign city, with the quaintness of 
all around them, and the absence of all pressing care for the 
moment, had given an indescribable charm to the memories 
of that time, — it was the greatest peace of soul which the 
mother and daughter had known for years. But there, upon 
a summer's morning, lovely as the one upon which the 
artist-wife was now dreaming, a deeper peace than that of 
earth bad fallen upon the mother as she reclined at the open 
window of her chamber, — and Margaret was summoned 
from the Gallery where she was copying Correggio's Magda- 
line to find her mother dead ! 

Through a mist of soft tears, the quiet grave where her 
mother slept, with its cypress tree and white stone cross, 
in the lovely Dresden cemetery, shone out now in the loving 
heart of the daughter ; but they were tears springing more 
over a sense of what that beautiful spirit had endured when 
clothed in the garment of earth, now crumbling beneath the 
white cross and flowers, than tears of a bitter bereavement, 
for to Margaret von Ehrenberg's heart her mother had never 
departed. Thus her whole life stood up before her, in the 
silence and brightness of that morning, whilst her hands 
pursued their work mechanically. 

A sharp ring at the door of their house aroused her out - 
of her dream. The words " Englischer Brief" — English 
letter — fell upon her ear ; but so few were her existing 
connections with England now, that they excited little more 
than curiosity as to from whom the letter could come. She 
broke the seal, and in a stiff, precise, little hand, read as 
follows : — 

" Flimbsted Manor, Christmas Day. 

" My dear Friend, — If you will still permit so great a 
freedom from the little old woman you were good enough to 



16 MABGABET YON EHBENBEBG. 

say many years ago had found a warm corner in your warm 
heart, — Dear Miss Margaret, I was going to write — for I 
cannot fix your grand new foreign name in my poor old 
head — long ago, when the news of dear Mrs. Harwood's 
decease reached us, a voice said to me, write to that poor 
young creature, alone in a foreign land, for her heart must 
needs want the balm of comfort poured into it, and who 
knows how she may not sigh after the old faces of home, 
even though they have never been very kind faces to her ? 
But I did not write, although my heart bled for you. My 
time, as you know, is much taken up by Mrs. Lushington ; 
and, as you may also believe, our friend does not grow less 
urgent with age in her requirements. The tidings of the 
good lady your mother's death I had trusted might have 
excited some of the old affectionate feelings towards you hi 
her breast, the lively expressions of which were at one time, 
at all events, upon her lips ; but she only shook her head as 
she sat fondling her little lap-dog, and said, with a sort of 
triumph — ' I always told you, Dorothy, no good indeed could 
come of that girl's strange vagaries: dragging her poor 
mother away from her English comforts ! She is so obstinate 
about her silly painting, that it would be no use inviting 
her here — which, were she in England, I might perhaps do, 
spite of her dreadful opinions and most unladylike way of 
proceeding ; but we will trust her pride may be humbled, 
Dorothy, by this judgment of providence !' These, dear 
Miss Margaret, I regret to say, were all the words that 
your great-aunt and godmother spoke ; but I saw her at 
various times during the day shake her head quietly, as she 
sat reading her thick volume of Jeremy Taylor, which, you 
may remember, she always calls for upon any occasion of 
unusual excitement. I must now for a short space bid you 
good-by, my dear, as Wilmot — you remember Wilmot ? — 
has come to tell me the poor pensioners of the Elimbsted 
Bounty are arrived to receive the Christmas dole. I must 
talk with them in the servants' hall, and inquire a bit after 
their aliments comfortably, as Mrs. Lushington has got a 
rheumatic pain in her temple to-day, and has not left her 
room. "We are as gay with holly and mistletoe as ever, my 
dear, and only ratbsr a little more solemn than when you 
knew us years ago. 



THE AETIST-WIFE. 17 

" July — Ton see, my dear, my epistle has lain a long time 
uncompleted ; nay, I feel almost ashamed of sending it now, 
except that it will prove to you that Dorothy has not for- 
gotten you. No, indeed, my dear, she has not ; and I cannot 
but hope and trust that your godmother has also not 
forgotten you in her heart, although it is a heart so well 
fenced in from the troubles of the world that it is difficult 
to reach it. The news of your marriage reached us in a 
strange, round-about manner — in a letter which your god- 
mother received from her nephew, Mr. Herbert, who is still 
in America. How he learnt the news there, perhaps you 
can tell, but we cannot. Tour godmother, I believe, is 
secretly much pleased, but she has been very angry indeed 
with you for not yourself informing her of this event, as she 
considers in duty bound you ought to have done. ' The 
first time in her life that the girl ever did anything rational 
she is as secret as a mouse. Had she only shown decent 
respect to me in this decided and important step in life — to 
me who am now, I may say, her sole remaining English 
relative, it might have been all the better for her.' And 
smoothing down her rich black mode apron with much 
flurry of manner, and with her head very erect as she sat in 
her crimson- velvet chair — do you not see how, my dear ? — 
she continued, 'But may be, Dorothy, she despises old 
English blood now she is so set-up with her German nobi- 
lity ; but the Count, or the Baron von Ehrenberg, or what- 
ever the title maybe, will curb, we will hope, those dreadful 
Chartist ideas which the girl got into her head, heaven 
knows how ! and put an end to her disgraceful ideas of the 
" nobility of labour," about which, you may remember, she 
was always talking, and with which she infected her cousin 
Herbert, more's the pity ! and which led to all that silly 
painting and drawing and working of both mother and 
daughter, — -just as though such things did not degrade gen- 
tlewomen as soon as money was made by them. Yes, it is the 
best thing that could happen to the girl to have got a hus- 
band, and of an old family, too ; and he must be pretty 
wealthy, no doubt, Dorothy, seeing he has married a por- 
tionless girl. Yes, it's the best, the very best thing that 
could have happened to her ; for so much regard I still bear 
the girl — for she's a something nice about her, after all— 

c 



18 MAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

and for the sake of poor Isabella's, her mother's, memory, I 
can't quite forget her ; and whenever I pictured her to my- 
self living in that disgraceful and unprotected way — alone 
among those foreigners with their lawless notions — I assure 
you, Dorothy, my flesh used quite to creep. But the girl 
should have written ; it is a want of respect both to me and 
to her husband : he, I am certain, would never have per- 
mitted such a breach of good manners, had he known ; but I 
warrant you the hussy will never have mentioned her great- 
aunt and godmother, Mrs. Lushington, of Plimbsted Manor !' 
And thereupon the old lady launched out again in her 
wrath. Dear Mrs. Ehrenberg, I tell you all this because I 
would have you understand that your godmother is really 
wounded by your silence ; and this is a proof that secretly 
she has a regard for you. For myself, my dear, it would 
have made my heart leap for joy had you condescended to 
remember your old friend in your mother's old home, in the 
hour of your happiness ; but she will ever pray for every 
blessing to be yours which is conducive to your welfare, and 
to that of the partner of your life, here and hereafter. 
" Tour attached old friend, 

" Doeothea Wood." 

It was with mingled feelings that the Baroness perused 
this letter, arriving as it did at a moment when her mind 
had been filled wita. tender memories of those old times and 
old friends. Her godmother and she had always been so 
painfully opposed to each other, that these words of the old 
lady's jarred still upon her spirit with a nervous irritation 
which she had almost forgotten; but the expressions of real 
regard in the precise stiff hand-writing of that kind inde- 
fatigable Mrs. Dorothea, whose prim yet kind little face 
beneath the closely crimped lawn border of her almost 
Quaker-like cap, connecting itself with many a tale of kind 
acts performed in bitter times of need to her beloved and 
saint-like mother, obuterated all harsher memories ; and, 
acting upon the impulse of the moment, Margaret laid aside 
her palette, and opening her desk indited a few lines of 
warm regard to the old friend of her girlhood. She dwelt 
only upon such things as might shed sunshine upon her, 
and help to soothe old Mrs. Lushington, should the letter, 



THE ABTIST-WIPE. 19 

as she anticipated, be read aloud to her. It was not want of 
respect in her, she wrote, which had prevented her informing 
her godmother of her marriage, but simply because she had 
long ceased to believe that any circumstance connected with 
herself could cause her any interest whatsoever. Of her 
husband she wrote a picture painted in warm colours of love 
and confidence ; and though she felt a certain spice of 
wickedness in doing it, still she could not refrain from 
observing, that the Baron von Ehrenberg was, perhaps, the 
strongest encourager she had ever had . in her art-life ; and 
that it was, in fact, through her painting she had found her 
husband. Could Margaret only, as she wrote these words, 
have possessed a magic glass, and witnessed King Ludwig's 
commendation of her favourite sketches, which at that 
moment was passing in the Kunst-Verein, how grandly 
might she have astounded the quiet old ladies at Elimbsted 
Manor. As it was, however, the epistle produced effect 
enough upon its arrival, especially as Margaret had laugh- 
ingly sealed it with great care with her husband's grand 
armorial bearings. Henceforth the name ol the Baroness 
von Ehrenberg was not unfrequently repeated with compla- 
cency by the stately old lady and her quaint little companion, 
Mis tress Dorothea. 



CHAPTER in. 

THE BAEON VON EHEEifBEEG AEEAiNGES A LITTLE BUSINESS WITH THE 
AUGSBUEG GOLDSMITH. 

The Baroness was very impatient, now that she had written 
her letter, for the return of the fascinating Baron, for she 
intended over their little dinner-table to tell him all about 
the to her great event of the morning, and as much more 
about those connections of hers in England as it would amuse 
him to hear, for her mind was very full of them ; and although 
she and the Baron had now been married more than a year 
she had never in any way alluded to old Mrs. Lushington ex- 
cept as to an old lady, her one connection, who had cast her 
off because she preferred oil to poonah painting, and the being 
an artist to living the life of a dependent, idle, and ennuyee 
young lady. 

But the Baron was blandly pursuing his walk through the 
English garden we know, and sauntering in deep reflection 
towards the bowery little bath and hamlet of Brunnthal ; 
therefore it was no wonder that his lady Baroness expected 
him in vain to the little two o'clock meal which Barbette 
had prepared, and where his favourite dishes, his Leib-speise 
("body-food") as Barbette called them, — crab-soup, snails, 
frogs, potato-salad, and venison — were gradually losing their 
pristine glory. 

But freedom of action for individuals as well as for nations 
at large, was one of the artist-wife's peculiar hobbies, — free- 
dom in life, in thought, and in deed ; therefore she had made 
a compact with her husband that as regarded even such 
small matters as meals and engagements they should be no 
shackle upon each other ; and as the Baron was very fond 
of his own freedom, and the Baroness had a deal of tact, 
and was also guided by a real affection in her heart for her 
husband, she had always prevented his ever being put out 
of the way by her freedom of action, — and thus things had 
gone on remarkably smoothly. Therefore to-day, when Bar- 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. 21 

bette had informed her mistress for the seventh time " that 
the gracious gentleman's body-food was quite spoiling, and 
would not her gracious lady, therefore, eat her nice little 
diuner," she did so with a very good appetite ; and now she 
might have thanked Nature and Art that such things as 
magic mirrors are not to be had, — for the picture then pre- 
sented by her mirror, had she possessed one, and used it to 
look after her husband in, would have shown her the fasci- 
nating Baron under very peculiar colours, and the pain 
might decidedly have spoiled her digestion. 

The Baron was seated in one of the many bowery nooks 
of the Brunnthal garden ; and with him sat an acquaintance, 
a rich young goldsmith from Augsburg, between whom and 
the Baron there always seemed to exist an extraordinary 
degree of intimacy. Though there was champagne on the 
table before them, and cigars, and they had just partaken of 
an excellent dinner, their countenances expressed any thing 
but complacency. 

" It's no use, Ehrenberg," said the young Goldsmith, his 
dark but handsome countenance overspread with an im- 
penetrable doggedness ; " I cannot and will not advance 
anything more until those other little affairs are cleared off. 
I've a real regard for you, — you know that well enough ; 
but there is such laziness or difficulty on your part, old com- 
rade, in paying up even the interest of those old loans, that 
one can't avoid growing cautious, you see. Command my 
services in any possible way but that ofadvancing/res/nnonies, 
until you have again inspired me with a little of my old 
confidence. For the service that your grandfather rendered 
to mine in the time of Napoleon, I would willingly do all 
that is just : for my German pride bids me do so, — to say 
nothing of personal regard ; but that history of your wife's 
dowry having been lost through her marriage with aforeigner, 
and the loss of my last loan, — for, you see, I cannot avoid 
counting it as a loss I through this losing of your wife's 
fortune, — considerably stagger me, I frankly confess." 

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Baron, with what Margaret 
would have considered, I fear, a forced and hollow gaiety, — 
" The cares of life, dear friend, must indeed press heavily 
upon you, when you commence talking in that staid and 
experienced manner, distrusting even so old a friend as 



22 MARGARET TON EHREKBERG. 

myself. "Why, I quite expect to see your head turned sud- 
denly grey ! There are still hopes in my mind that that 
comfortable little fortune is not ultimately lost. My wife 
is in consultation at the present time with one of the first 
English lawyers regarding this very affair, and he gives her 
undoubted reason to hope that all, at least, is not lost ; but 
as we will not calculate upon any thing in the slighest 
degree uncertain, we will put this entirely out of the ques- 
tion. My own affairs are getting gradually into the most 
hopeful condition, — this I confide to you as my old friend in 
the strictest confidence ; and there are certain diplomatic 
negociations now pending which will most materially 
influence my prospects ; in the meantime, certainly, one is 
rather pinched. We live, as you are aware, in a manner 
scarcely befitting my old name and title. My excellent 
wife is of a prudence unimagined, and being perfectly con- 
versant with the peculiar position of our affairs at this critical 
moment, is only too scrupulous, if any thing, in our expendi- 
ture. She has even, as you must have heard, — for her pic- 
tures have been creating a perfect furor here, — been turning 
her beautiful accomplishments as an artist to a sordid 
purpose, and has been painting for money. I only this very 
morning, at the Kunst Verein, had a most flattering proof of 
her success. Whilst standing unobserved in the room 
where her picture hangs, — a portrait, by the by, of my 
excellent wife herself in an old fashioned-costume, — who 
should come up but his Majesty ; and, unconscious of me, 
— who stood there, as you may conceive, in a perfect thrill 
of delight, — he forthwith launched into the most unbounded 
praises of her work : his words will of course fly like wild- 
fire through the city, and if my wife should choose to follow 
portrait-painting as a profession, why her career is at once 
established ! — I really advise you to step into the Kunst- 
Verein, should you have the time, to-morrow morning, for 
you cannot fail to be delighted. And now an idea suddenly 
strikes me : would it not be well worth your while to have 
a couple of excellent portraits painted by my wife ? she 
even, I remember, gently hinted such a possibility this 
morning when we were talking over certain of our affairs. 
Yes, yes, the idea is hers entirely ; now I perceive the drift 
of her meaning, which she was too delicate more explicitly 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 23 

to explain to me. Good, noble Margaret, thine truly is a 
generosity of soul unparalleled, unimagined !" — and the 
Baron was so much affected that he passed his handsome 
hand over his dry eyes. " Tes, yes, old and tried friend, 
could we not thus arrange matters to our mutual satis- 
faction ? you advance me the little sum we were speaking of, 
— a mere trifle indeed, for two such pictures as my Mar- 
garet will paint for you, — for her genius and her noble heart 
will rejoice in gratifying the tried friend of her beloved 
husband. "What say you, tried and old friend ?' ' 

" I say, Ehrenberg," returned the friend, with a conside- 
rable cloud of his dogged distrust vanishing from his coun- 
tenance, " That you tempt me in a most vulnerable point. 
I have long heard with admiration of the skill of your excel- 
lent lady : that one evening spent at your house last year 
has rendered me a most devoted admirer of hers, as you 
already know ; and my visit this morning at the Kunst- 
Yerein. where I found a knot of admirers around the 
Baroness's picture, inspired me with the most ardent desire 
of possessing some work from so rare a hand. I happen 
also to have two pictures of great value in my possession, 
— pictures left with me as a deposit for money, and which 
have become very dear to me. Now I feel truly that what 
I am about to propose is derogatory to so high a talent as 
that of the Baroness, your excellent lady ; still, as they are 
very precious to me, these portraits, perhaps she might con- 
sent — and this is what I propose— that she make me such a 
copy of each picture, as may best suit her taste ; and should 
she consent to this, the few hundred Gulden you mentioned 
are yours, — or rather, I should say your excellent lady's !" 

" Noble, generous man !" ejaculated the Baron, embracing 
his friend with every sign of the tenderest affection. " And 
why should we wait to consult with Margaret ? pursued he, 
with animation : " the idea, as I already observed, was her 
own — suggested by the warmest and most devoted of female 
hearts. Here I will give you a memorandum of the affair ; 
her own signature she will affix to it at any time you may 
desire it, — for instance when you send her the pictures to 
copy. You will complete our happiness, also, by two con- 
cessions, I already foresee, good and benevolent benefactor ! 
firstly, enabling me to surprise my Margaret by the goodly 



24 



HAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 



sight of the few nundred Gulden at your earliest convenience ; 
and also, by in no wise referring to these pictures or to her 
professional labours in any way before her, as she has not 
yet overcome a natural repugnance to the subject, as you 
can well comprehend that the causes for her resolution have 
been painful in the extreme to her. Ah, you know not how 
sensitively alive I am to her suffering through me the slight- 
est wound — through me, for whom she would sacrifice every 
thing ! Tes !" exclaimed the excited Baron von Ehrenberg, 
again embracing his friend with effusion, " within a year at 
farthest, as you gaze upon your beautiful pictures, your 
heart will everflow with a thousand soothing memories !" 

That the affair was amicably settled between the friends 
we believe to have been the case, as towards five o'clock in 
the evening, whilst delicious music was pealing softly through 
the leafy mazes of the bowery English garden, the two were 
seen by numerous of the Baron's acquaintance in merry con- 
verse, as they returned together towards the city, — meeting 
as they did so, the tide of good citizens who were streaming 
forth into the balmy freshness of the vast park-like garden. 
Alas ! we fear, had the Baroness possessed the magic mirror, 
she would have seen many a similar painful picture ! 

Margaret, like an imprisoned soul, was longing for a stroll 
into the fresh greenness of the country, and would have 
wandered out by herself that afternoon, with her sketch-book 
in her hand, to some neighbouring quaint village, had she 
not from moment to moment been expecting the return of 
her husband. " We will both go out together into the Eng- 
lish garden at all events, when he returns," thought she. 
" It would really be very charming to drink coffee at the 
Chinese Tower ; there is music there to-night, and Conrad 
would be sure to meet numbers of his acquaintance there ; 
and I will make myself remarkably handsome by putting on 
my embroidered white dress, which he likes so much, and do 
him all honour by appearing a very respectable Baroness, 
although a poor hard-working artist- wife ! Tes, we will cast 
all care and ambition aside, and be right lebens lustig (life 
enjoying) !" So she attired herself in the embroidered white 
dress, and awaited the fascinating Baron's return with quite 
a lover-like eagerness. She was in a remarkably good hu- 
mour with him, and with all the pretty things she had said 



THE AKTIST-WIFE. 25 

about him in her letter to her old friend ; and she had been 
telling him ever so many times, in imagination, about those 
old times which had lain so warmly all day in her heart : she 
longed, by his knowledge of these old memories, to link him 
to the former chapter of her existence, and she would in her 
tuin get him to relate many things about his former life, 
before she knew him. Really she had been very selfishly 
wrapt up in her own concerns, never to have solicited his 
confidence ! — and he so devoted to her, so proud of her ! 
Her heart quite reproached her with a thousand short- 
comings : therefore, when the peculiar ring that always 
announced her husband's arrival, sounded, she anticipated 
Barbette, and darted ont to open the door to him, herself. 
It was like a gleam of sunshine streaming out of the door- 
way toward them as the door flew open, thought at least, if 
not her husband, her husband's companion, the young Augs- 
burg goldsmith, as she stood there in her white dress, its 
soft drapery shrouding her commanding figure, and her 
usually somewhat severe features softened by a gush of un- 
mistakeable love ; — in truth, altogether there was a magical 
charm thrown around her. 

" We are come to fetch you to the Opera, Margaret," said 
her husband, in his most winning manner. " There is the 
new opera which I'm most anxious to hear, and I've fallen 
in with my old friend Herr Xavier, you see, — I want you 
both to know more of each other ; and all the world will be 
at the Opera, — several people, by the by, Margaret, whom 
I am particularly desirous you should see : so let us be off 
immediately. We've already met several pretty rose-buds 
tripping along Opera-ways, lorgnette in hand, and silken 
hoods upon their heads. Put on your pretty hood, my ma- 
jestic lily Margaret," cried the Baron, in high glee, pressing 
most gallantly her white statue-like hand to his lips. 

The poor Baroness, spite of all the real love in her heart, 
could not help swallowing, with a sort of choking sensation, 
her disappointment : the evening was so beautiful, the woods 
so fresh and calm : the Opera to her in summer, with its 
glare, its oppressive atmosphere, its crowds of people, was 
always odious, and most especially so when the music would 
be that of a composer whose style and feeling in every way 
were opposed to her code of art. " But Conrad so often is will- 



26 MABGATtET TON EHREKBERG. 

ing to sacrifice his comfort to mine !" said she in heart, with 
a pleasant little self-deception ; and though she made no 
reply, and felt, as we have said, a hasty choking sensation in 
her throat for a moment, she was immediately, however, the 
gracious hostess and the agreeable, though perhaps no longer 
the beaming wife, as she welcomed the guest Herr Xavier, 
the Augsburg goldsmith, in the small baronial saloon : here 
a French time-piece informing them that still a half-hour 
remained before the commencement of the opera. Margaret, 
who was a true English woman in her love of tea, and prided 
herself upon presenting it in regular English fashion — pro- 
perly strong, and without an elegant little rum- decanter on 
the tea-tray, as is usually seen in German houses, — ordered 
Barbette to bring in this, at least to her, most agreeable re- 
freshment. But the Baron was too elated to care either for 
tea, or nectar even, had it been presented to him at that 
moment, and rattled away in such amazing spirits, that 
Margaret, whose nerves were usually responsive to all 
around her, soon caught the infection, and was as gay even 
as himself. Herr Xavier sipped the strong tea with con- 
siderable discomfort, but consoled himself with gazing at the 
Baroness with such looks of sentimental admiration as only 
a German would have permitted to himself, and with praising 
her picture in the Kunst-Verein, and the sketches which 
hung in their sitting-room, in such warm terms that Mar- 
garet, whose great weakness — shall we confess it ? — was a 
certain artistic, not personal, vanity, and who, therefore, 
never having noticed the looks bestowed upon herself as 
well as upon her pictures, swallowed this flattery with even 
a better grace than she had swallowed her disappointment of 
the rural tete-a-tete walk with her delightful Baron. 
" Beaily," said she to herself, " this Herr Xavier has un- 
usual penetration and feeling for art," — and "feeling for 
art " being the key to Margaret's good graces, she almost 
unconsciously grew as fascinating and irresistible as the 
Baron himself. 

Another thing, nay, we should say several things, con- 
duced also to keep the Baroness in uncommonly good- 
humour. Her husband, as they walked through the sunny 
streets to the pretty theatre, whose frescoed pediment glowed 
in the rich rays of the evening sunlight — rays which were 



THE ARTIST- WIPE. 27 

also bathing every angle and sculptured arch and column 
of the beautiful, unique art-city in a flood of roseate light, 
itself a circumstance to set Margaret's nerves in a delicious 
thrill,— her husband, we say, as they walked along, was tell- 
ing her, according to his prescribed rule of action, and with 
every appearance of delight, of the success of her picture, 
which he had witnessed that forenoon in the Kunst-Verein : 
had be breathed a word about the sketches having attracted 
all the royal notice, we will not answer for what absurdity, 
even there and then in front of the royal palace itself, the 
poor artist might not have been guilty of. But, though she 
was pleased that the portrait was pronounced good, still a 
secret little sigh heaved itself up in the deepest recesses 
of her heart, — " Ah ! my dear little landscapes, then you are 
not good as I imagined ! unknown and poor you have met 
with a truthful judgment. Tes, Conrad, you must be right, 
my landscape allegory may be my pet insanity after all!" 
and for a few moments she sunk into a silence— Herr 
Xavier thinking her gravity more beautiful than her mirth. 

It was the poor Baron now who met with a disappoint- 
ment. The new opera had suddenly been changed for 
Pidelio. He was terribly put out about the loss of the 
new opera ; " Eidelio," he declared, he had heard a thousand 
times at the very least ; yes, yes, every one knew it was 
very beautiful, of course, and all that sort of thing, but he 
had a hearty good mind to change their tickets, — better a 
million times go to the little Au Theatre — there you would 
hear and see something not so hacknied : or even a stroll in 
the English Garden would be pleasanter than the hot 
crowded Opera House, which he remembered his dear Mar- 
garet always hated in summer, where every tone of the 
singers, every grimace, was sickening. But what thought 
his charming Margaret ? — he would be guided by her — yes, he 
and Herr Xavier would be guided by her entirely. 

Now the Baroness, having an extreme love of " Pidelio," 
and not having heard it " a thousand times " actually, con- 
sidering that she had had all the trouble of coming to the 
theatre, desired to stay where she was. It was very selfish, 
no doubt, in the Baroness, but we do not pretend that our 
fascinating Baron's lady is the faultless heroine of romance ; 
therefore, now it was for the poor Baron to politely smother 



28 



MAEOAEET VON EHEENBEEO. 



liis disappointment, which of course, whatever it might 
cost him, he would have done with unusual grace, had it not 
been rendered somewhat easier to him to bear by the vision 
which swept past him — the elegant near-sighted court-lady, 
attended by the young French Attache. 

Margaret, with unpardonable insensibility to her husband's 
sufferings, soon apparently forgot all around her, whilst 
listening to the spirit-stirring strains of Beethoven. The 
noble and strong devotion of Eidelio caught up her soul with 
it, bearing it away into the pure atmosphere of ideal art. 
With Margaret, religion, and art, and poetry were pretty 
much one and the same thing — in the depths of nature's 
solitudes, in the quiet of her own studio, in a church, or, as 
now, in the Opera, her spirit would at times, swayed by some 
magical and mighty external influence, flee upon wings of 
intensest aspiration and love up to the very gates of heaven, 
where, flinging itself down in the golden atmosphere of bliss, 
it would worship in unutterable joy and humility : at such 
moments she felt herself capable of any act of heroism, of any 
act of devotion ; and never was her love for the fascinating 
Baron so strong as at such times. Her fa.ce, though not 
handsome by any means, was singularly capable of express- 
ing emotion, — and now she sat with a countenance pale as 
marble, her dark eyes dilating with an almost unearthly 
intensity, her bosom heaving with her quickly-drawn and 
tremulous breath, and her hands convulsively grasped in 
each other. 

Her husband, leaving her to the care of his friend after 
a short time, went to pay his devoirs to the near-sighted 
court-lady. He was extremely anxious that his dear 
Margaret should exercise her clever pencil upon the fashion- 
able lady's fashionable countenance. The court-lady, who, 
near-sighted as she appeared to be, was nevertheless per- 
fectly well aware of all that was going on among the audi- 
ence, however little attention she vouchsafed the singers, 
watched his approach, and, whilst he made his way round 
to her box, swept with her lorgnette over the agitated 
countenance of the artist-wife, at the same time that her 
tongue swept over her character. " Alphonse !" lisped she, 
in Alphonse' s native language, and with a most honeyed 
and languid manner, " you are correct, the wife of our 



THE ABTIST-WTFE. 29 

delightful friend is a great fright, with her untasteful 
coiffure, her red hair, and that bold staring white face of 
hers. Ah ! it is a happy thing for our dear friend that he 
is so blindly besotted that he perceives neither her hideous- 
ness nor her carelessness of him, nor her disgusting flirtation 
with that man seated beside her. Bah ! those English- 
women and those emancipated women are very dreadful — ," 
but suddenly changing her tone, — " Ah, dear Baron, de- 
lighted to see you ! your lovely Baroness I perceive is here 
to-night ; we were just talking about her, Monsieur d'Etoile 
and I ; he vows I must be painted by her, — will she con- 
descend, dear Baron, think you, to immortalize me ? " 

The " dear Baron" was delighted: " Eidelio," the near- 
sighted lady, Monsieur d'Etoile himself, everything was 
delightful, enchanting to him ; he was again in his most 
charming of spirits. Oh, it was an enchanting evening. 

Herr Xavier also thought the evening enchanting, and 
pondered much upon it as he walked to his hotel through 
the brilliant moonlight. 



CHAPTEE IV. 

A TEA-MARTS' AT THE COTTET-COTTNSELLOR'S. — THE ENGLISH TRAVEL- 
LERS DISCOVER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 

Whilst the "baronial pair were enjoying themseives at the 
Opera, as we have seen, certain of their friends and admirers 
were assembled in a pleasant sunny garden just without the 
city, where the vast plain of Munich stretches away and 
away for miles and miles in an unbroken and desolate level, 
almost from the very thresholds of the suburban houses and 
gardens which encircle that side of Munich as with a 
garland of freshness and fragrance. Above the clustering 
acacias, lilac, and laburnums of the garden, were seen the 
pure white marble columns and pediment of the beautiful 
Grlyptothek, the gallery of sculpture, the evening sunlight 
gleaming upon its loveliness, and tinting the one side with 
roseate reflections, whilst the other remained in azure sha- 
dow, and beyond all, along the vast mournful horizon, lay a 
solemn assembly of gorgeous evening clouds, golden, rose, 
violet, dun, with heavenly glory streaming through them in 
mighty rays of fiery light. But to gain a good view of the 
sunset you had to ascend into a quaint pepper-box summer- 
house, which, overshadowed by a rank vine, was constructed 
close to the road which skirted the garden, and where, from 
the trellissed balcony, you commanded a view of the plain, 
and also, which was considerably more to the taste of many 
frequenters of the pepper-box, a view of all the passers-by 
up and down the road. 

This bowery garden, and especially this summer-house, 
were all astir with lively tongues, and active knitting- 
needles, and tea and coffee-drinking, this particular evening 
in question. Ludmilla's mother was having a " ladies' 
party," but as there chanced to have called with a letter of 
introduction, upon the learned Hofrath that afternoon, our 
acquaintance the young Englishman whom we saw in the 
Kunst- Verein, he and his young wife and her sister were all 




Q^^^a 



THE ARTIST- WIFE. 31 

three invited to join the party, and the Hofrath was per- 
force obliged to honour the society himself, to prevent poor 
Mr. Fleming being that unlucky monster, the one gentleman 
in a " ladies' party." 

It was vastly amusing to Mr. Fleming, however, and 
would perhaps have been still more so to him, had his bene- 
volent host left him to his own untoward fate among the 
women-kind, instead of talking to him in his funny English 
about " Schlegel, Carlyle, and the present dreadful state of 
criticism in Great Britain," about which happy Mr. Fleming 
cared and understood not a button. He had never before 
been among so many comfortable German maids and 
matrons, and though he only spoke their language in a 
manner scarcely as intelligible to them, no doubt, as the 
critic's English was to him, yet many of them could speak 
capital English, and even those who could not, spoke 
French, or nodded and repeated their German sentences in 
such an amiable merry manner, that never certainly could 
there have been a pleasanter mode of studying their lan- 
guage invented ! Besides, what wicked enjoyment had not 
Mr. Fleming, in watching, on her entrance among the com- 
pany, his young wife's bashful English embarrassment, 
which showed itself in a monosyllabic quietness, pronounced 
of course behind her back, as " that detestable English 
pride," and in her sister's scarcely concealed surprise at the 
" oddness " of everything, betraying itself to him, though 
of course to none of the party but himself, by an increased 
largeness of her large blue eyes. The unlucky young 
English ladies had come in their white muslin dresses with 
short sleeves, and with flowers in their hair, expecting it 
was a regular evening party : very unlucky this was, but it 
was only pronounced " English " by the good German 
women, who founded, much to their satisfaction, upon it, a 
theory regarding the prevalence of consumption in England, 
owing to the unseemly custom of young ladies in that con- 
stant fog of England going about in " cut-out d?*esses." 
Ludmilla, among her numerous accomplishments, spoke 
English remarkably well, and this helped on the conversa- 
tion most agreeably with Mrs. Fleming and her sister, 
Miss Lavinia Massey, and after the tea, diluted extremely 
by water from the silver kettle which simmered over its 
little spirit-lamp, on the middle of the table, had been 



32 MAEGAEET VON EHEEtfBEEG. 

quaffed by the company out of cups of the gayest descrip- 
tion, each one differing from the other in form, gilding, and 
colour, and the baskets of quaintly shaped cakes, and curled 
and plaited, and sugared and cinnamoned, and iced and per- 
fumed biscuits, had been considerably emptied by the nimble 
fingers of the fair ladies, and their no less nimble lips, and 
when the white cloth being withdrawn from the tea-table in 
the pepper-box summer-house, the older ladies resumed 
their quivering knitting-needles, together with their equally 
active flow of gossip, Ludmilla, pitying the bewildered ears 
of the English ladies, conducted them down the rustic steps 
of the summer-house, into the wilderness garden beneath, 
where already, among the shrubs, and between the edges of 
the shaggy patches of lawn, might the wiry little critical 
Hofrath, and his wickedly smiling guest, be seen parading 
up and down. 

The young ladies having touched upon the various " lions" 
of Munich, fell into discourse about the Kunst-Verein ; and 
Mrs. Fleming having a certain undeveloped germ of art in 
her, and a fully developed germ of curiosity, began numerous 
questions regarding the Baroness von Ehrenberg, who was 

;?n 'Englishwoman, and so clever ! — " Did Mrs. then 

really know her ? And did she like her ? And was she not 

very queer? Oh, do tell us about her, Mrs. !" cried 

both the young ladies. " And about her husband, whom a 
gentleman at the table d'hote to-day says is such a 
fascinating man, and a great favourite at Court too, and so 
handsome !" Ludmilla smiled rather a dry smile. " Oh, 
yes, he is reckoned very fascinating, but the Baroness is my 
particular friend ; and perhaps as I know most about her, I 
consider her more agreeable than her husband : she has made 
me quite in love with all your nation, and it is quite delight- 
ful to see how much she likes our country ; but I suppose, 
now that she has married a German, we must consider her 
as half one of ourselves. I know the Baroness von Ehren- 
berg extremely well," pursued Ludmilla, smiling, and who, 
spite of a natural inherent caution, could not avoid launch- 
ing out into praises of her beloved and admired friend. " I 
know her extremely well, owing to various circumstances, 
but especially to her having resided in our family upon her 
first arrival in Munich. She had lost her mother whilst in 
Dresden, and poor Margaret ! — I can never, in thinking of 



THE AliTIST-WIFE. 33 

my friend, dear young ladies, call her anything else but by 
her Christian name — was very lonely, spite of her devotion 
to study, and imagined, in coming to a new city, it would 
cheer her to live among kind, intelligent people ; so having 
letters to my father from a valued friend of his in Dresden, 
she asked us to recommend her to some kind pleasant 
people with whom she might board, and we, feeling all of us 
a peculiar interest in her from the first moment we met, 
proposed that she should have rooms with us, to which she 
most readily agreed, and with us she remained until her 
marriage ; in fact, it was through my father that the Baron 
made her acquaintance. I've sometimes wondered," re- 
marked Ludmilla, after a slight hesitation, " what induced 
her to marry; she, so independent and self-reliant, and 
eccentric in her habits. But there seemed a vast blank in 
her life after the death of her mother, and perhaps the 
Baron's honied words were unusually insinuating at a time 
when often I have seen tears start to her eyes, as happy family 
groups have passed us in our rambles through the English 
garden, on those balmy evenings of her early sojourn with 
us ; and she has said, after all, dear friend ! my art-aspirations 
are at times very like a little lark, who sinks down exhausted 
from his singing among the sunlight, dazzled and faint, and 
longing for an earthly resting-place, at least for a space, 
among sweet common grass and flowers. I believe her poor 
heart was very desolate and sad at times, and therefore 
that the Baron von Ehrenberg, who can talk well about love 
and life, and the poetry of existence, and such things, in a 
remarkably graceful manner, and who delighted her by his 
admiration of her artistic talent in the first instance, made 
an impression upon her heart far deeper than any of us 
expected." 

" But has she then no relatives, no connections at all ? 
How very queer ! No uncles nor aunts, nor any thing at all 
comfortable ?" inquired the young English ladies, whose 
curiosity was fully aroused. " Why, really, Arabella !" sud- 
denly ejaculated Miss Lavinia, with a crimson flush spread- 
ing all over her excited countenance, " this lady never can 
be old Mrs. Lushington's god-daughter, or great-niece, or 
whatever it is, whom they were always talking about, and 
who, you remember, years and years ago, when we were 

D 



34 MABGAKET Y01T EHKENBEKG. 

little children, offended Mamma, and old Mrs. Lushmgton 
also, so much, because she would not admire Caroline's 
white- velvet cover for Mamma's chair, which she had 
painted ? you remember it ? all over roses and tulips ; nor 
even the screens for the drawing room chimney-piece, with 
the monster pink and green butterflies ! Oh, I wonder 

whether it can be she ? Oh, what was her name, Mrs. ? 

was she Miss Harwood ?" 

"Yes, she was Miss Harwood," replied Ludmilla, scarcely 
less surprised than the young ladies, — " And I have heard 
her occasionally refer to an old lady called Mrs. Lushington." 

" Eobert ! Eobert !" cried both the young girls, seizing 
Mr. Fleming by both his arms in a most unceremonious 
manner as he passed in entangled converse with the old 
Hofrath, who, pausing also with the young Englishman, 
made both ladies a most courtly reverence, which they, how- 
ever, were too much absorbed to notice. — " Oh, Eobert ! only 
think how odd, how deliciously odd ! that Baroness whose 
picture you admired so much is — oh ! do, do, guess, Eobert 
— but you never will : you are so stupid at guessing !" — is 
Margaret Harwood, — old Mrs. Lushington of Elimbsted's 
god-daughter, about whom you know we have heard such 
queer things since she has been grown up. Mamma, you 
remember Lavinia always said she never could believe she 
was in her right senses ; but we always liked her when we 
were children because she put out old nurse Eodham's cap 
when it was on fire that night she slept at our house, 
and when we went screaming about the nursery in terror 
she leapt out of her bed, don't you remember, and filing the 
water out of the jug on the wash-hand-stand over poor old 
Eodham as she was rushing out of the door ? — Oh, I am so 
glad ! I am so glad !" sang both sisters, clapping their 
hands and dancing round Mr. Fleming and the astounded 
old critic, who could only smile most devotedly ; some way 
imagining that this extempore ballet was designed to honour 
him, and strangely perplexed both by it and by his cloudy 
knowledge of the English language, — which knowledge 
seemed utterly to escape him as he attempted to distinguish 
the meaning of the English words rapidly enunciated by the 
excited girls. 

" Oh, Ludmilla !" at length pitifully asked the old gentle- 



THE ARTIST-WIPE. 35 

man in his native tongue ; " "What are the dear young Eng- 
lish ladies saying to please me ?" — Ludmilla rapidly explained 
the cause of their excitement, -which however wounding it 
might be to his vanity, was however, so interesting to his 
heart, — for he had an almost paternal regard for our 
Baroness, and always prided himself upon having introduced 
her husband to her, — that he listened all ears to the 
English ejaculations of surprise and delight of the merry 
group, and which, having now his cue, he could follow some- 
what. 

" Oh, delightful indeed, girls ! delightful ! 'pon my soul it 
is famous — really first rate ! I'll have pictures of both of you 
girls, that I will, if your old friend will only paint them ; yes, 
if we stay a month longer in Munich on purpose. It will 
be prime work showing them to those old muffs at Elimbsted 
as the pictures of a celebrated continental artist, and hearing 
all their praises, and then, after all, telling them who the 
painter is, and hearing what they will say then ! Old Mrs. 
Dorothy, I know, will begin to cry very hard ; but as for old 
Madam Lushington, I can't even picture to myself what she 
will say ! But Caroline, girls ! your sister Caroline, — do you 
think she will admire your pictures ; or will she repeat the 
words of my lady Baroness's criticism on her screens years 
ago, and say, — ' No ma'am, but indeed I can't admire gaudy 
daubs ?* Poor old girl ! it will be a great trial of her mag- 
nanimity, won't it ?" 

" But how are we to make the Baroness's acquaintance ?" 
suddenly demanded Mr. Fleming, after a hearty fit of 
laughter, in which Arabella and Lavinia's gay voices joined. 

That difficulty was soon arranged. Ludmilla and the 
Hofrath were to accompany them to the Baroness von Ehren- 
berg's studio in the forenoon of the following day. They did 
so, astonishing Margaret no little, as she sat painting still 
upon the drapery of Ludmilla' s portrait, and again pondering 
upon the letter received the day before from her old friend 
Mrs. Dorothy, by a living vision of those long-past days in 
the blooming bride and bridesmaid, who dawned upon her 
astonished memory as the laughing little sisters of Miss 
Caroline Massy, the renowned Poonah artist whose exqui- 
site works had been eternally by her godmother held up to 
her for imitation and admiration in those days of yore. 



36 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

Hearty, indeed, was the meeting between the old acquaint- 
ance, and it was speedily arranged how Margaret should 
paint the sisters — as a memory of their singular discovery 
of her own identity— in the self-same " cut-out" dresses 
worn the night of the Hofrath's party — dresses which 
were very much to the taste of Mr. Fleming, who pro- 
nounced them decidedly " spicy." In painting the portrait 
of Lavinia, there was a deal of laughter about a certain 
palm-tree which Mr. Fleming insisted upon having intro- 
duced. " Lavinia knows why well enough, the sly puss ! — 
Eh, Lavinia ? don't you, don't you now, like palms and tigers, 
and the tropics, and anything that is connected with India ? 
Oh, yes, Mrs. Ehrenberg, be sure and put Livy's palm in:" 
— and so, however mystified the poor Baroness might be 
by the request, the palm-tree was introduced, as eur readers 
will perceive if they turn to Lavinia' s portrait which heads 
this chapter. 

During the progress of these portraits, of course the 
fascinating Baron was introduced to Margaret's new yet old 
acquaintance, and the impression made by him upon them 
was even greater than the impression she had created in her 
new character of artist and Baroness. The Baron and Mr. 
Fleming, indeed, formed quite a league of friendship : they 
were seen parading arm in arm down the Ludwig Strasse, — 
they were seen together at Tambosi's, — and at many 
another less aristocratic haunt. Fleming was charmed to 
have an acquaintance who could show him life abroad. He 
and the Baron even made an excursion of ten days together 
among the mountains, where many a little adventure 
occurred which furnished anecdotes of Grerman and English 
eccentricities to each gentleman in his separate circle for 
many a month to come. Fleming, especially, amused the 
Baron by the difficulty, nay, rather the impossibility, he 
found in sleeping in the beds at the inns where they staid. 
He did not appear at furthest above an inch taller than the 
fascinating Baron ; still he never could manage to follow his 
example, and repose in " those deuced uncomfortable 
Grerman cribs," as he denominated the beds, " where your 
legs are doubled up into nothing, or rather into something, — 
indeed, into your German bandy-legs, which you impudently, 
I Und, call the " English deformity" Well, Baron!— by 




_— 






THE ARTIST-WIFE. 37 

Jove, how you've escaped it is an everlasting wonderment 
to me !" In fact, were one to explicitly believe the Baron 
von Ehrenberg's description, poor Fleming's Tyrolean trip 
was rendered quite bitter to him by his uneasy nights, which 
were passed in impotent endeavours to stretch himself out 
across his bed, with his feet resting on a couple of chairs, 
and his head on another chair, — diagonally upon his bed, — 
upon chairs, without the bed, — upon a mattrass pulled off 
the bed, — upon the sofa, — upon the very boards of the 
floor, — every where in fact, except comfortably straight in his 
bed, as a a less lanky and fastidious Englishman would have 
done. However, spite of the disturbed nights, both Fleming 
and the Baron retained a most agreeable and lively remem- 
brance of their little tour, which seemed really to put the 
seal upon their friendship. And when the time arrived for 
the Flemings' departure, most hearty were the hand-shakings 
of the two gentlemen. The Baron had tact enough to avoid 
giving an embrace to his English friend as he would have 
done to him had he been a German ; and repeated were the 
requests that the Baron and the Baroness would visit them 
speedily in good old England. 

The acquaintance of the ladies had also progressed during 
the absence of the husbands, but not in the same degree. 
Margaret found the young ladies, though extremely amiable, 
rather vapid : and, except for the subjects of discourse 
afforded by their mutual knowledge of Elimbsted, and the 
old haunts, and old people, and old memories connected with 
it, their conversation would have been meagre enough, for 
Margaret was one of those women who grow even disagreea- 
ble when subjected to the constant irritation of " small-talk," 
and would experience a weariness unutterable after an 
hour's infliction of amiable giggle and vapid sweetness : 
still she learned many little things connected with her god- 
mother, and the position of affairs at the old house, which 
were interesting to her, and intrusted letters and a drawing 
in water-colours — a lovely sunrise in Greece — one of her 
favourite compositions, as a present to her godmother, — to 
the charge of Mrs. Eleming, whose new home was even 
nearer to Elimbsted Manor than the home of the Masseys, 
Grimby Court. The young ladies on their side were more 
awe-struck than fascinated by their old acquaintance ; and 



38 MARGARET VON EIIRENBERG. 

the memories of certain anatomical plates and drawings from 
" the nude" model which they had found in one of her port- 
folios, and certain involuntary fits of abstraction into which 
the Baroness had fallen during the time she was painting 
them, and they rattling away in childish glee, would no 
doubt figure in their descriptions of her as shadows to 
the picture drawn by them and Mr. Fleming of the 
baronial pair. 

And now, with the reader's permission, we will hasten 
over a space of several months, merely observing that there 
seemed to be a regular rush to the Baroness von Ehrenberg's 
studio for portraits, and that her whole time was absorbed 
in painting them, — one among these portraits being a very 
sentimental lady in a fancy costume ; and our shrewd sus- 
picions are, that this picture found its way into the dressing 
room of the devoted Erench Attache. Two most antiquated 
and extraordinary oil-paintings, also of a large size, and of 
wondrous colouring, arrived in the course of the autumn 
from Augsburg, directed to the Baroness ; but as she was 
very much occupied, and had heard nothing at all about 
them, she put them hastily away behind her green curtain as 
terrible eye-sores which must be concealed, and also must be 
inquired about some day, — but being out of sight, they 
soon passed entirely out of mind. 

The Baroness was really extremely occupied; and, although 
portrait painting was by no means her favourite work of art, 
still she most wisely determined " to make hay whilst the 
sun shone," and lay up quietly a nice little private fund, to 
be expended by her upon the prosecution of her studies in 
Italy, — her cherished day-dream of many a long year — a 
dream which she flattered herself this unexpected run of 
money-luck might convert into a sober reality. 

The Baron w T as extremely gratified to see his prophecy of 
her success in portraiture fulfil itself, more especially as, 
in a pecuniary point of view, it was most useful to them both, 
and greatly plumed himself upon it, smiling and growing 
doubly amiable. Tet still the Baroness imagined to herself 
that at times there was a shadow of discontent upon his 
fascinating brow — perhaps it was her over anxious-heart, 
she would say to herself ; or it might be — yes, secretly, at 
the bottom of her heart, she desired earnestly it might be so 








4^ ^ 




THE AUTIST-WIEE. 39 

— an uneasiness about the long delay of his appointment. 
It really had a demoralising effect upon a character, , such 
an aimless, dutiless existence ; and, besides, she felt money 
matters might grow serious and anxious affairs to them ; 
— and, although it was a pleasant thing to pay off a 
milliner's bill and a few odd trifles with the delightful 
rouleau of florins received for a sketch or a portrait, or to 
purchase the fascinating Baron a fascinating new coat, or a 
fascinating pair of boots, on an emergency, also out of her 
private fund, still it decidedly went against the grain with 
the Baroness. But if such a hint were breathed by her 
earnest lips, or an anxiety looked out of her grave eyes at 
the amiable Baron, he would so overwhelm her with merry 
speeches, and look at her with such arch and loving eyes, 
and so for the moment annihilate her reason by his gaiety, 
that the anxious suspicion would fade out of her heart for a 
space, only, however, again and again to return. 

And so the year rolled on with the baronial pair and with 
all the world, and has brought us to the very midst of the 
gay Carnival. 



CHAPTEB Y. 

A TETE-A-TETE BEEAKFAST, AND AN UNMASKING BEEOEE THE MASKED 

BALL. 

It had been an unusually gay and brilliant carnival this 
year at Munich ; the court, the military, the students, the 
bourgeoisie, all had given their masked balls with a madder 
enjoyment than usual. The weather had been splendidly 
bright and sunny, spite of the hard frost which still kept the 
earth enchained ; and thus, at times, masks even were seen 
parading the streets as in Italy, or an open carriage filled 
with masqueraders would in broad daylight roll through the 
streets. Every one declared such a mad, merry carnival bad 
not been known for years ; but the maddest, merriest event 
of all had yet to occur, and this was the artists' masked 
ball. 

The Earon had had his full enjoyment of all the winter 
gaieties, but Margaret, who cared little for such things, had 
invariably declined all invitations to balls, whether public or 
private, leaviug to her charming husband the task, to him an 
easy one, of doing the polite for them both. Eut this artists' 
ball was altogether another affair, and Margaret really felt 
herself growing enthusiastic about it, as her husband, who 
was in the very thick of the excitement, and as her artist 
acquaintance daily communicated to her the wonderful pre- 
parations that were in progress. The painters of all grades 
were banded together to produce something unusually gor- 
geous, it was said ; and the droll and humorous programmes 
and proclamations issued by their committee excited expec- 
tation throughout the city to the very last degree of enthu- 
siasm. The King, it was said, had entered heart and soul 
into the scheme, and many revered artist-names were passed 
from mouth to mouth as the creators of unrivalled beauty 
gradually developing itself within the walls of the Opera 
house, where the festival was to take place. 




cJ^^ %a^^^^y,a/\yf^/u^///. 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 



41 



Margaret had decided to wear the costume of Titian's 
daughter in the Pinakothek Gallery, — a crimson velvet 
dress with a simple deep white lawn tucker drawn across 
the bosom, and her magnificent golden hair put back from 
her temples and confined behind in a rich golden net ; she 
must also carry in her hand a feather fau. This costume 
pleased her on various accounts, — because it was most un- 
obtrusive, comparatively inexpensive, and, according to the 
assurance of her husband, most becoming. In fact, the 
Baron was singularly solicitous about her appearance that 
night, and, much to her surprise, insisted upon her permitting 
him to have a suite of pearls reset for her. As they were 
her sole relics from her beloved mother's dwindled store of 
jewels, he knew how greatly she valued them ; and now, to 
honour them and this grand art-festival, they must indeed, 
declared her loving husband, be reset in the most unique 
and lovely manner — in a style suitable, indeed, to her Titian 
costume. He had already arranged with a jeweller about 
them, and, to do him an especial favour, his beloved Margaret 
must gratify his whim ; yes, certainly he would grant it 
was a whim ; still to a loving heart a whim will be law 
stringent as that of Mede or Persian. He overruled every 
objection of Margaret with the merriest humour, and, 
laughing, carried off his prize to his jeweller. Margaret's 
old uneasinesses regarding expenses and extravagance even 
returned with tenfold violence as soon as her husband's 
presence had vanished out of the house ; but again he 
silenced her lips, if not her reason, by such pleasant words, 
and by such amiable unselfishness in the proposal for his 
own costume at the ball, whilst he was thus lavishing ex- 
pense upon her, that she even appeared to start up before 
herself a monster of sheer ingratitude, 

These arrangements had taken place some ten days before 
the morning of the artists' ball : upon which we return to 
our friends, finding them enjoying a tete-a-tete breakfast ; 
the rooms rendered rather chaotic by various articles of 
costume lying upon chairs and sofas. The married pair were 
in merry discourse regarding the approaching festival, the 
artistic beauty of which carried the enthusiastic Margaret 
along with it now, spite of economy or busy cares. 

" Dearest, dearest husband !" she cried, with almost 



42 HAEGAEET VON EHEENBEEG. 

childish glee, " how silly I've been, with all my fears of 
heaven only knows what. Now we will cast care aside, and 
be merry as merriest carnival ! — and therefore, to commence 
with merriment, I've a merry revelation to make, dear 
Conrad!" — and starting np from the sofa at his side, she 
was hurrying to a cabinet to reveal a beautiful and quaint 
helmet she had constructed for her husband, who was to 
personate a knight in the Niebelungen procession, which 
was to form a principal feature of the evening's wonders ; 
but the Baron flung his arms around her as she rose, and 
drawing her towards him with a most lover-like ardour, and 
imprinting a kiss upon her beautiful hand, cried — 

" I also, Queen Margaret, have my merry revelation to 
make. Have my brilliant eyes so dazzled you, queen ! 
that my ring has escaped all notice ? See, see ! how it 
sparkles! how it shines! how it burns!" cried the Baron, 
extending his hand aloft, and exhibiting a magnificent dia- 
mond ring upon his finger, where usually he had worn a 
ring of much less attractive character. 

" Conrad ! how beautiful ! But how ? when ? where — ?" 

" Yes, how ? when ? where ? Don't you confess, O 
peerless daughter of Eve ! to a grain of mother Eve's 
curiosity ? How ? when ? where ? Let your glowing ima- 
gination stretch forth her wings, and encompassing sea and 
land, ' riddle me the why and the what,' as your poet hath 
it. But, at all events, is it not a beautiful ring ? handsomer 
a hundred-fold than its predecessor, and a real valuable 
possession ; — but how it alighted, my beautiful ring, upon 

my little finger, guess that: — how, where, and when? 

Oh, but I am not going to relate my romantic history, Mar- 
garet, if, instead of smiles into your face, I see the ring has 
called forth such an ugly scowl." 

" Dear, dear Conrad ! not a scowl of anger or ill-temper, 
far from it ! but believe me, it does, I hardly myself know 
why, call forth from my heart a bitter anxiety, and pain, and 
uneasiness, this ring, beautiful as it is — oh, pardon me, 
dearest husband ! when perhaps I am most unjust — it excites 
a fear lest you — lest we have been too lavish, too thought- 
less, too — " 

"Lavish! too lavish!" interrupted the Baron, starting 
up from the sofa, and dashing away the table with an im- 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 43 

petuosity and with a heightened colour and voice which 
fairly parched the lips of the Baroness with an astonished 
terror,— so entirely unlike her caressing and amiable hus- 
band did he appear to her at that moment 

" Oh. Conrad, what have I said thus to excite such un- 
natural anger — such words and looks frightful in you, who 
ever — " 

" Who ever have been fool enough to let your tongue, 
Margaret," cried he, his whole frame quivering with nervous 
excitement, " speak what silly trash it would, unheeded, 
though, believe me, Margaret, not unfelt ; you have goaded 
me long enough with your ' fears' and your ' anxieties,' and 
it does sting me to the very quick to see such a scowl upon 
your face at a moment when I was intending a surprise — 
an agreeable surprise, of course, to you," added he, hurriedly 
and with a sneer, to Margaret, yes, with a sneer, most 
strange, most miserable. 

" But, Conrad," pleaded she — a smile, however, stealing 
over her face, for the whole affair at that instant assumed 
an almost comic aspect to her mind, as she saw her husband 
chafing with his anger, so groundless and sudden — " but, 
Conrad, never mind my words, let me hear the wonderful 
history !" and she laid her hand soothingly upon his arm; 
but, as though the hand stung him, he flung it from him, 
and grinding his teeth with very rage, in the bitterest terms 
vowed never more should she goad him and taunt him as she 
so long had done ! — " was he a child, forsooth, that he re- 
quired her advice, her anxious lecturing upon every mere 
trifle : might he not even then procure a ring, but my fine 
lady must moan and lament ?" and, upsetting the box in 
which lay his wonderful helmet, and kicking it with intense 
disgust as he strode towards the door, he disappeared, bang- 
ing the sitting-room door, and the outer door also, after him 
with a tremendous noise, and was gone ! 

And Margaret ! pale as a statue, she stood for an instant 
in the centre of the room — her lips bloodless, and her eyes 
flashing with a dark indignation. " The man must be mad, 

or worse," she quietly and slowly said aloud, in English, 

to herself. " This has been our first misunderstanding, — 
unless I mistake much, this shall be our last. Truly, one 
thing I have to regret, and that is that the goad was not 



44 MARGARET VON EHRENBLRG. 

oftener used — for, alas, I feel within me a presentiment 
pointing to an uneasy and dissatisfied conscience as the 
secret of this unworthy anger — not my words !" And Mar- 
garet, with a mechanical hand, picked up the luckless helmet 
and placed it carefully in its box, and then, with an equally 
cold manner, she arranged the disordered breakfast table, 
not a tear fell from her eye — not a word more escaped her 
lips, upon which sat a strange and cold determination : a 
horrible stony feeling had grown round her heart — yet all 
anxiety seemed for the time benumbed, except the petty 
miserable disgust that Barbette should have heard the 
Baron's angry words and the loudly slammed doors. To 
Margaret's imagination a matrimonialquarrel had always been 
so peculiarly offensive ; — her pride, her womanly delicacy, 
were wounded to the very quick — and this sick disgust was 
the only wound which bled outwardly ; but, on her side, 
no one should observe any change. Barbette, when she 
cleared away the breakfast things, saw the Baroness, whom 
she glanced at with a queer expression on entering, busily 
and calmly engaged in " setting " her pallette. Yes, Mar- 
garet would paint, though her hand trembled like an aspen- 
leaf, as she found, and though the picture seemed to fade 
away into a vast distance when she seated herself before the 
easel — she would paint — yes, her painting was after all — 
who knew ? said a secret something within her — henceforth 
to be all, everything to her. But how absurd are such voices in 
moments of over-wrought feeling ! What was this, — a quarrel 
— oh, it was scarcely a quarrel even ; and why should they 
be so unlike the rest of the world ? — oh, it was nothing ! 
nothing ! But the wounded pride bled and bled ; all else, 
however, seemed stone and ice, — and losing all conscious- 
ness of time, and everything except the sick weight at her 
heart, she painted on and on. 

There were many preparations yet to be made for the 
evening : for unluckily this happened to be, as we have said, 
the very day of the Artist's festival ; but all thoughts of 
it vanished out of poor Margaret's mind, as she sat painting 
on and on, with her stolid mien. 

Ludmilla, with whom and her father the von Ehrenbergs 
had arranged to go to the Ball, was the first disturber of 
Margaret's miserable reverie. Ludmilla arrived, radiant 



THE AUTIST-WIFE. 45 

as the bright joyous winter's morning without, where a 
brilliant sun shone out of a deep-blue cloudless heaven upon 
the crisp white snow beneath the foot, while the keen clear 
air braced mind and body. The artist's shaded room and 
the artist's sorrow- stricken face smote upon Ludmilla' s 
spirit with a double mournfulness. 

" Margaret," cried she, looking around her in a surprise, 
as if expecting to see some tangible misery, — " Good 
heaven ! what ails you ? - or is it only that both your room, 
with its half-closed window, and yourself, seen sitting against 
that green curtain, strike me, suddenly coming out of the 
external brightness and sunshine, as death-like and gloomy. 
Why what on earth are you doing with your painting, on 
such a morning as this ? Depend upon it you'll be the sole 
painter who will work to-day ; — and how have all your 
arrangements turned out for your costumes ? I'm in a 
regular gossiping mood, and want to see all your things, and 
hear all the last news ! And your clever helmet, with its 
beautiful heron's wings and its ivy-wreath — does it look as 
charming as you anticipated ? — and does the dear Baron 
look as charming in it as you declared he would ? Oh, you 
must show it me, and tell me whether the Baron was not 
very much surprised ; — and then are your pearls yet come 
home ? and your dress ? But dearest, dearest Margaret, 
something does ail you, I am certain — your hand trembles so 
strangely, and you are so white: good God, you are ill!" 
and starting up, Ludmilla sprang to her friend's side ; but 
Margaret, calmly turning towards her her bloodless counte- 
nance, and her whole frame quivering with a very ague-fit, 
said, in a deep hoarse voice, — 

" Ludmilla, dear, I must someway have overworked 
myself, for I feel a severe pain in my forehead, but it will 
soon go — only take no notice of me, or do not appear to con- 
sider me ill ; it is one of my weaknesses, that I cannot 
endure to be pitied for any little physical ailment : really, 
dear friend, this is only nervousness, and will soon pass ; 
and do not let me spoil any one's enjoyment, or my own," — 
this was said, indeed, with a bitter smile, — " on such a bright 
day as this !" 

But Ludmilla secretly was far from being relieved of a 
bitter and increasing anxiety by these words, and still she 



46 MAEGATtET YON EHRENBEEG. 

scrutinized her beloved friend with keen and searching eyes ; 
but Margaret had again turned to her painting, and the 
ague-fit had past. Margaret even so far recovered her self- 
command as to show the costumes to her friend, which were 
lying in chaotic disorder, as you may remember, in the break- 
fast-room, — and, although Ludmilla left, beseeching Mar- 
garet to repose herself for the evening, Margaret declared 
that she already was much better, and that they would find 
her, depend upon it, the gayest of the gay, when they called 
for her and the Baron that night. 

"When Ludmilla was gone, and the full sense of the bitter- 
ness which lay within her heart rushed back upon her soul, 
tears, — a very torrent, — seemed to swell within her breast ; 
but with an almost superhuman effort she crushed them down 
within her, and with tearless eyes and bloodless lips she laid 
out upon the Baron's bed all his costume, — his rich maroon 
velvet cloak, his green doublet, his gorgeously jewelled 
dagger, and his unlucky quaint helmet, so beautiful and 
unique, and which seemed with its fresh greenery a bit out 
of the old sylvan world of the Niebelungen. She did all 
mechanically ; it was what she had intended always to do in 
the day, to put all things ready for him ; among them 
various little articles which, according to her artistic sense, 
rendered the costume more complete, and which were to sur- 
prisehim: among these was the dagger, which she hadborro wed 
from an artist friend for him, and a quaint hunting-horn. She 
now never said even to her heart, — Will he be pleased with 
these things? But she arranged them as she had fancied herself 
doing them all along, and that also before she arranged her own. 
She even stood a long time admiring the beautiful colour and 
artistic effect of the things before her : they seemed more 
beautiful to her eye than ever ; she found herself steeping 
her spirit in this beauty ; — but it was only one portion of 
herself that did all this, that moved about and painted and 
laid hundreds and hundreds of plans for the future, and 
could gaze for ten minutes at a time upon a bit of golden 
brocade and velvet, upon moss and ivy leaves ; the other 
portion was severed from the active, breathing, artistic Mar- 
garet, — it was like one bewildered with a mighty horror, — it 
sat apart, shut up, forgotten of the other. 

Hour after hour passed over, and no Baron returned. 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 47 

Except for the miserable scene of the morning, and his 
unaccountable state of irritation, Margaret would have found 
no especial cause of uneasiness or wonderment in this, as 
they were always extremely independent of each other, as 
we have already observed. — " He will come back in time to 
dress for the ball," said one mental voice. " All will be as 
though nothing unpleasant had happened ; and, Margaret, 
you were perhaps wanting at least in tact." — " No, never, 
never, never again will things be as they were ! never, never, 
never again will your love be the same : there was much 
more in his action than the mere deeds and words !" mur- 
mured another voice ; — and as it murmured and whispered, 
the miserable portion of Margaret sitting apart in its solitude 
arose and wrung its hands, and beat its head against the 
walls of its prison. 

Hour after hour passed ; she found herself listening and 
listening ! Oh, it would be so much better if he would come 
and let them talk it all over ; she would be so wary in her 
words ; she would say all with such love in her face, that if 
— Ah ! miserable, imprisoned voice, be silent ! — if he loved 
her he must listen to her words. Yes, she was sure now 
that he was torn and badgered with many cares, and her 
words might truly have been the last drop in the miserable 
bitter cup ; and though she felt wounded, or at any other time 
would have felt wounded, that he had not confided all his 
anxieties to her, as she should have done by him, still a man's 
nature was doubtless prouder, harder, than a woman's. 
Oh, only let her be charitable, — let her, at least, not through 
blind, stupid, wounded pride, act wrongly, cruelly, hardly : — 
for, oh ! cried that moaning, miserable restless voice aloud, 
calling through that solitary cell in her heart, " You do love 
him, Margaret ; and love, though trodden under foot, though 
stabbed and spat upon, yet puts forth its flowers, its delicate 
tendrils, and will fill with light and fragrance a very dun- 
geon !" And, for the first time for months, hot tears show- 
ered from Margaret's eyes ; and, sinking on her knees, she 
besought Grod to remove all bitterness, all miserable wicked 
bitterness, out of her heart and his, and to strengthen her, 
whatever might occur, to act as He would bid her act. 

But no Baron came ! Evening was closing in ; already 
she heard carriages begin to drive about : it was necessary, 



43 MARGARET YON EHRENBERO. 

she remembered, for them to go early in order to secure 
seats for the evening ; and that the good critic and his 
daughter would call for them at a certain early hour she 
remembered also. Oh, if the Baron would but return ! 
But he did not. She mechanically dressed herself, with 
Barbette's assistance, in her beautiful costume, — Barbette all 
the time chattering away about all that she had heard regard- 
ing the ball, and admiring her gracious lady's appearance, 
and at the same time noticing everything peculiar about 
poor Margaret's manner and countenance in order to gossip 
about it with the Frau Majorin's cook, and with Carl, the 
Baron's man. — "And,oh! what a pity it was that the gracious 
gentleman should stay out so late ; he never would be back 
in time to dress himself properly in all his beautiful things ! 
And would her gracious lady wait for her gracious gentleman, 
or go with the honourable Mr. Hofrath when he came? 
Oh, Herr Je ! Herr Je ! how the carriages did drive thun- 
dering through the streets ! Oh ! her gracious lady would be 
so late, and the gracious gentleman not come home ! — but 
there ! there ! he must be ! — that must be his ring ; and 
then her gracious lady need leave no message for him, but 
they would all go so finely together !"— And Barbette, with 
her everlasting clack, so wearisome always to Margaret's 
English ear, so especially sickening to-night, ran off to open 
the door. 

Margaret heard Barbette usher some one into the saloon : 
it evidently was not the Baron. Barbette, entering the 
chamber, closed the door most carefully after her : then 
standing with her back against it, called out in a loud 
whisper, — " Lady Baroness, it is a gentleman, a person, 
who wants to see the gracious lady alone !" 

" Well, Barbette, and what of that ? Take the lamp into 
the saloon, and tell him I will come ;" said Margaret, with 
a composed voice and countenance, but with a horrible sick- 
ness darting from her heart through every vein and nerve. 

" I have done so, Lady Baroness!" again hoarsely whis- 
pered Barbette. 

With an indescribable foreboding, Margaret, dressed in her 
lovely costume, entered the drawing-room. She instantly 
recognized, standing in the centre of the room, a well-known 
jeweder of the town, and in his hands her dear old casket 



THE AETTST-WIEE. 49 

containing the pearls. She had quite forgotten the pearls, 
so entirely had the agitating day absorbed her every thought ; 
and now, although the sight of the casket jarred upon a 
string of anxiety, still she felt a momentary sense of relief. 

" You have brought my pearls, Mr. , I perceive ;" said 

the Baroness. 

" Yes ! the gracious lady would, he doubted not, extremely 
admire the style of the setting. The Baron von Ehrenberg 
had such perfect taste ! — and, indeed, if he might be so bold 
as to offer a remark, the pearls were indeed worthy to be 
worn upon so important an occasion and with so tasteful a 
dress ; and, really, he did not wonder that the Baron von 
Ehrenberg should have gone to so much expense about the 
ball, for he understood — the lady Baroness of coarse knew 
that every thing was speedily spread through their little 
city, which was not like London and Paris, — yes, he had 
understood that the Baron stood at that moment extremely 
high with his Majesty ; but of course, of course he knew 
such things were not to be repeated to every one, — but, as 
the Baron had seemed to consider expense as no object, he 
had readily believed, — and as the gracious lady herself — " 

" But allow me to see my pearls," said Margaret, grow- 
ing impatient at the jeweller's wordiness, and stretching 
forth her hand towards the casket. 

" Perhaps the gracious lady was aware — yes, of course 
she knew that before giving up the pearls, he must request 
her to sign her name to the paper which he had brought with 
him — she was, he knew, acquainted with the transaction — 
merely a little business form, of course, which certainly it 
was ungallant to trouble a lady about — still business was 

business : " and placing the casket upon the table, he 

took forth his pocket-book, and a portable ink-stand, and 
having selected a certain paper, laid it upon the table in the 
full light of the lamp. 

A sick faintness had gradually crept over Margaret's 
frame, and, as she mechanically bent over the table to read 
the paper, all seemed to swim around her ; but there, in 
the well-known handwriting of her husband, stood these 
words, which burnt themselves as with living lire into her 
brain. 



50 MARGARET YON EHRENBERG-. 

" Munich, February 15th, 184—. 

"I promise, on behalf of my wife, Margaret Baroness von 
Ehrenberg, nee Harwood, that she shall pay to Caspar 
Theodore Wolf, Wein Strasse, within twelve calendar months 
from the above date, the sum of 1000 florins, for a diamond 
ring, and other articles, which I have purchased from the said 
Caspar Theodore Wolf ; and I further engage that my wife, 
the Baroness von Ehrenberg, shall sign this paper upon its 
being presented to her. 

" Conrad Adelbert yon Ehrenberg-." 

" N.B. — By consent of the Baron von Ehrenberg, the 
suite of pearls belonging to the Baroness von Ehrenberg, and 
which have been reset by me according to directions received 
from the Baron von Ehrenberg, shall be retained in my 
hand as a pledge for the completion of this engagement. 

" Written in presence of the Baron von Ehrenberg, 

" Caspar Theodore Wole. 

" Feb. 15th, 184—" 

Again and again did the miserable Baroness read the 
paper : as she lent over the table it seemed to her as though 
her eyes must follow the hateful words up and down ever- 
lastingly, as though her lips must mutely form the sounds, 
but as though their sense, though already burnt into her 
brain, would not be recognised by her soul. She still bent 
over the table, and her glazed eye-balls wandered up and 
down the paper, and her lips moved, but no sound issued 
from them. " The gracious lady will permit me to offer her 
this pen — does the Baroness prefer a hard or a soft nib ? 
Will the gracious lady perhaps permit me to read the memo- 
randum to her ? I forgo b the gracious lady might find our 
G-erman handwriting difficult to decipher ?" and the jeweller 
also lent forward towards the paper. 

" I shall not sign it !" clearly and firmly enunciated Mar- 
garet, proudly drawing herself up, and, as if suddenly pos- 
sessed by a spirit of the intensest defiance — and her eye 
shot a fierce lightning ; never, never, so Grod help me, will I 
bind myself by that miserable paper !" 

" Then your magnificent pearls, lady Baroness " smil- 
ingly suggested Mr. Wolf. 



THE AETIST-WIEE. 51 

"Remain with you, sir! — "Begone! — You are more than 
recompensed. Begone with you, I say !" and she pointed 
commandingly towards the door. 

Mr. "Wolf, politely uttering numerous apologies " for 
having so unconsciously, unavoidably, displeased the Baroness, 
but business was business," bowed himself out with the 
casket and memorandum. 

A hotter indignation had now seized upon Margaret. All 
her suspicions were more, oh, far more than confirmed ; 
words and actions of the Baron's assumed now a character 
so new and astounding, that she seemed to have dealings 
with an entirely different being to her husband, whom she 
had always admired and respected so sincerely. No, he was 
quite gone, faded into a memory of the past, where he stood 
up happily surrounded by love : he, this beloved husband, 
was as one dead. But the Baron von Ehrenberg, who wrote 
that paper — who had schemed so cleverly to enrich himself 
through her pearls — who so coolly wrote her name upon so 
miserable a document, oh ! he had always been evil and false 
— towards him she had never either felt or sworn love — it 
was a wretched libel to speak of such a thing : she trampled 
with scorn his actions beneath her indignant feet ; up and 
down the room she paced with fevered hurried steps ; her 
eyes burned, a crimson tinted her usually white cheek, and 
her whole bearing was of one possessed by a strange and 
fierce spirit of anger. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE AETISTS' BALL, AND AN OLD EMEND WELL MET. 

Whilst she was thus, like a caged beast, pacing her prison 
with hurried and angry steps, a carriage rolled to the door ; 
there was a startling ring, and in came the Hofrath, all 
smiles, and bows, and compliments, to conduct her to the 
carriage. " Was she better than she had been in the morn- 
ing, when Ludmilla called ? But he need not ask that ; she 
had the most charming hue of health on her blooming 
countenance ! — how becoming was her costume — so truly 
artistic ! But did her worthy husband know that the car- 
riage was below ?" 

" My worthy husband," laughed Margaret, in a high and 
shrill key, " I suppose is going to surprise us all by assuming 
a character unimagined by any of us — I find he is fond of 
such things : at all events he has not dressed himself in his 
Niebelungen dress. But don't let us wait for him ; probably 
he is there already, before us ; — let us be off, dear Hofrath !" 
And taking the little man's arm as he presented it from 
beneath his sky-blue domino, they passed down stairs to the 
carriage, where Ludmilla, attired as an Italian peasant, 
awaited them. 

Margaret felt the excitement of all around her in strange 
accordance with the extraordinary mood in which she was 
in : the roar of carriages hastening with their flaring lamps 
all towards the one goal, the Opera-house ; — the laughter and 
shoutings of the crowd in the streets, and assembled around 
the steps of the Theatre, observant of the arriving company ; 
— the blaze of light from the huge bronze candelabra which 
graced the broad steps, and flung wild lights and shadows 
upon the ascending fantastic throng, Moors, Turks, Rococo- 
ladies and gentlemen, fools and pilgrims ; — Oh, she was no 
longer herself, nor the world the ordinary world, nor did 
anything appear too monstrous to be real ; nor any- 
thing which she had ever considered real appear too real to 
be after all aught more than a mere mask and harlequinade ; 



THE AUTIST-WIEE. 53 

she was delighted to have her countenance covered with her 
silk mask ; her dress, as she glanced down, or caught a 
glimpse of herself in the long mirrors upon the walls and 
staircases of the theatre, as they passed along, seemed to 
be that of some other beiug than Margaret von Ehrenberg. 
She felt to herself as wandering through a delirious dream ; 
— and now they stood within the theatre itself, the pit con- 
verted into a vast ball-room, from the centre of which arose 
a fairy pavilion of golden gothic tracery, festooned with 
living wreaths of the most lovely exotic creepers, with 
golden dolphins spouting forth streams of ruddy wine into 
a golden fountain beneath the golden pavilion : with the 
richly emblazoned banners of the different artist-corps, float- 
ing in gorgeous folds and streamers from above it, with the 
spaces between the boxes draped with the same corps 
colours, and with ivy and moss garlands, binding together 
artistic trophies of palettes and brushes, alternating with 
groups of musical instruments : and the whole vast space 
was one moving mass of brilliant colour, whilst the walls 
were peopled with quaint and gorgeous crowds gazing down 
upon the quaint and gorgeous crowds below, and over all, 
and through all, sounded gay laughter, and shrill cries, and 
a maddening hum of frantic merriment. 

Margaret's cheeks glowed and burnt beneath her silken 
vizor ; her eyes flashed with a weird light ; her bosom 
heaved with a fierce violence beneath her rich costume ; her 
tongue was armed with keen arrows, ready to pierce to the 
heart of her husband should she recognise him under any of 
the fantastic disguises around her. It was no longer a 
moaning, loving, enduring spirit that abode in the secret 
recess of her soul, but rather a spirit of fiery indignation, 
which, with its living scorn, would wither up as by scorching 
flame the object of its contempt. Her eyes sought out, 
through the mad tumultuous sea of life around her, for this 
object, but in vain ; the spirit was Argus-eyed, watching ever 
and ever, yet she moved about with an almost regal air ; she 
laughed, she cut right and left around her with her keen 
sword-like words, and this with an apparent brilliant gaiety 
which astounded Ludmilla, who had ever considered her 
friend as rather of a reflective and silent nature than gay or 
sparkling. But now the royal cortege having arrived and 



54 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

taken its place of honour within the royal box, and the whole 
multitude having received the Art-King with deafening 
acclaims, and a song of welcome sung by the artists, the full 
jollity of the night commenced. To the sound of shrill 
music, the curtain at the back of the stage, which still occu- 
pied its accustomed place in the theatre, was swiftly drawn 
up, and forth dashed — whirling their clubs, striking them 
upon the ground, yelling, laughing, flinging bon-bons amid 
the crowd — a mad troop of " fools," the pointed hoods and 
hanging sleeves of their quaint particolour, mediaeval 
dresses — scarlet, yellow, white, and crimson — flying in the 
wind, and the sound of their little bells mingling wildly with 
the turmoil. On they swept, leaping from the stage down 
into the ball-room, and rushing like a stream of fire through 
the multitude, which, with shrieks of laughter, parted on 
either side, leaving a broad pathway around the hall, and thus 
clearing a space for the dancing which was now to com- 
mence, — but not until a wondrous procession had gravely 
wound its way along, following in the wake of the mad 
fools ; and this was the procession of the Mebelungen 
heroes : — those mighty men and women of that old poem, 
" Siegfried," the youthful, generous, confiding, and bold 
warrior leading by the hand his beloved majestic Chrimhilda ; 
the fiery jealous Brunhilde and her husband, King Grunther ; 
Hagan, the treacherous murderer of Siegfried ; and a vast 
train of knights, minstrels, ladies, and servitors ; the dwarf- 
guardians of the JSTiebelungen treasure ; the armed Hun 
followers of fierce old King Etzel; Etzel himself (Attala). 
Chrimhilda' s second husband, and the avenger of the noble 
Siegfried's treacherous death. All wound along, clad in the 
rich and quaint costumes of that heroic age ; their burnished 
shields and spears sparkling in the brilliant light of a thou- 
sand tapers ; their swords and daggers encrusted with 
jewels. The stalwart forms of noble youthful knights re- 
vealed through closely-fitting golden chain-armour; rich 
velvet and embroidered draperies falling around the stately 
forms of noble ladies, their crisp locks confined in golden 
nets, or flowing in rich waves adown their proud shoulders ; 
a band of hunters, with their ivory horns and sharp hunting- 
knives slung around them, with their hose and doublets of 
green, russet, orange, and grey — the colours of summer and 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. 55 

autumnal woods, — with their mystic helmets adorned with 
wings or other trophies of the chase, but ever wreathed with 
ivy sprigs or shaded by twigs of pine, breathing of sylvan 
solitudes : minstrels, old and young, some with long flowing 
snowy beards, others with round youthful cheeks, smooth 
and lovely as a fair maiden's, but all with keen visionary eyes, 
and with laurel-crowned brows, and bearing in their hands 
golden harps, or quaint ebony violins inlaid with pearl, from 
which ever and anon they called forth fitful and fantastic 
strains, that wildly mingled with the heroic march sounding 
from the concealed orchestra. 

On swept the train, and as it passed — a glorious vision of 
chivalric poetry — Margaret's artist-soul breathed freer and 
purer ; the fire within her burnt, but it consumed not her- 
self or her own wrongs : her imagination had borne her forth 
into the spirit of those mighty old heroic deeds, and the 
largeness of the griefs, of the passions, of the sufferings, and 
the revenge, of those beings whose wonderful semblances 
had flowed past her in a vast stream as in a magic glass, 
ennobled her through the annihilation of self for the time 
being. She had torn off her mask, and, with earnest eyes 
and a dream-like solemnity stealing over her face, leant 
against an ivy-wreathed column, and watched the departure 
of the procession, unconscious of the troop of grotesque and 
whimsical characters which now pell-mell was rapidly 
spreading itself over the unoccupied space of the ball-room, 
and commencing a deliriously mad waltz. 

A gentle and gracious voice aroused her out of her medi- 
tations, and her eyes encountered, bending towards her, the 
noble countenance of one of Germany's greatest painters : 
his wondrously clear eyes beamed 'a genial kindness, and a 
sense of extraordinary peace stole over her as his words fell 
upon her ear : — 

"I am loth, Baroness," said the kind and courteous voice, 
" to disturb so delicious an artist's reverie, as I recognise 
yours to be, — nay, unless it were to disturb it by a happy 
reality, I would not do so — for we artists know, do we not, 
dear Baroness ? that such reveries come from our Lord G-od 
Himself ! But here is an old friend of yours — nay, even a 
relative, he tells me-— waiting to claim your recognition : 
permit me to present Mr. Herbert Lushington." 



56 MAEOAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

And, as Margaret raised her astonished eyes from the 
noble countenance of the great painter, and directed them 
towards his companion, she recognised in the placid, sweet, 
but grave face, with its large, deep blue, mild eyes, and the 
luxuriant chesnut hair which, parted down the centre of the 
head, fell in wavy masses upon the shoulders, the old be- 
loved companion of her early youth — her cousin Herbert ! 
How astonishing was this meeting ! how unreal, dream-like ! 
and yet still more bewildering as she traced the changes 
of time and thought upon those familiar features, which 
seemed, since last they met, to have been been chiselled and 
refined by deepest thought and suffering : but the whole 
countenance beamed peace and blessedness, and the quiet 
tones of the old voice thrilled every nerve, like some once- 
beloved but long forgotten strain of music. 

The great painter, waving his hand in adieu, was lost 
amidst the fantastic multitude, and the two friends were 
left standing together in bewildered delight at this extra- 
ordinary meeting. 

" I have long been anticipating this encounter, Margaret," 
said Mr. Lushington, with the heartiest delight expressed 
in his beautiful eyes ; " though you have utterly lost sight 
of your old friend, he has not done so of you. My love of 
German philosophy and poetry has always brought me into 
contact with such intelligent Germans as visited Boston — 
where, perhaps you know, the last several years of my queer 
life have been passed, — and always since I heard, through our 
good Elimbsted folk, of what they call there Margaret 
Harwood's " German escapades," I have always enquired 
after you, in hopes of hearing some stray tidings ; and thus 
meeting with an acquaintance of Baron Ehrenberg, I heard 
of your marriage, and also with the sincerest delight of your 
beautiful profession. Margaret, I have often thought of 
writing to you ; still it seemed to me that it would be plea- 
santer to surprise you some day, as now, by suddenly look- 
ing in upon you on my way to the East. Yes, Margaret, 
like a true American — for, depend upon it, spite of old 
Elimbsted and the entail, I'm more American than English — 
I am on my way to Palestine and Egypt. It is but to-day 
I reached this Art-City ; and, hearing of this grand festival, 
I felt certain of meeting vou here. That astounding genius 



THE AETIST-WIFE. 57 

K , whose studio I visited this morning — what noble 

and true art, Margaret, is his ! — and to whom I brought a 
letter from a name revered by him, promised to-night to 
introduce me to my dear cousin, the Baroness: speaking 
also of you, Margaret, in terms which truly rejoiced my 
cousinly heart !" 

But we will not enter into detail of their happy con- 
verse. As the mad merriment of the ball raged around 
them, they withdrew into comparative silence and soli- 
tude of a nook where a few seats were placed, and a single 
chandelier hung among a grove of laurels, and orange, and 
myrtle trees, which was so arranged as to conceal the or- 
chestra by its tali leafiness. There, with cool green shadows 
playing about them, they discoursed for several hours — or 
rather, Lushington discoursed, for Margaret had no wish to 
speak, but rather to listen to the pleasant stream of beauti- 
ful words which flowed from the beloved lips of her old 
friend, — of minds dear to Margaret through their printed 
thoughts, and beloved by Lushington as personal friends, 
of many vast plans for the future, of poetry and the deep 
truths of life he spoke — touching but slightly upon his own 
past personal career, and that only as regarded his idolized 
child, the little Signild, who, since her mother's death, had 
been the very core of his being, and anxiety about whom had 
for several years delayed his great journey to the East. 
Beautiful, indeed, was the whole spirit of the man ; so imbued 
was it with the " love of love, the hate of hate, the scorn of 
scorn." Prom Margaret's moral atmosphere, which the 
heroic beauty of the JN"iebelungen procession had already 
purified, now every fog and evil meteor was cleared : she 
felt as though a blessed angel had winged his way through 
it, leaving around his track warmth, light, and sunshine 

Had Margaret, in this better frame of mind, encountered 
her husband, how different would have been the words formed 
by her lips to those burning upon them when first she 
entered the ball-room ! But she was not called to the trial 
of her magnanimity ! Later on in the night, Ludmilla and 
the Hofrath having, after a considerable search, discovered 
Margaret in her retreat, and the newly-found cousin had 
been introduced to the old friends, and there had been a 
deal of wonderment over this surprising arrival, and over the 



58 MAEGAEET VON EHEENBEEG. 

Baron's surprising absence, conversation became general and 
of a gay character, and they all issued forth again into the 
carnival jollity. 

That quaint and favourite German dance, the Cotillon, 
was beginning — a dance where the everlasting waltz is varied 
by merry, freakish figures introduced among it. Groups of 
the most fantastic character clustered around the fore- 
ground — Turks and Esquimaux, Arabs, and courtiers of 
Louis XIV., court-ladies in hoops, and Eoman matrons, 
knights of the Mebelungen, and British sailors. "Wherever 
the eye fell, it rested upon burning colour, brilliant light, 
and incessant movement. The music panted and sighed 
through the heated air, and the circle around the golden 
pavilion was filled with whirling waltzers, who spun around 
in mazy evolutions, passing beneath tall hoops of blue and 
silver, which were held above their heads by the merry band 
of fools who were stationed in long lines on either side the 
circle. 

Through this delirious mass of life Margaret's anxious 
haart once more sought for her husband — but still in vain ! 
Again the madness of the whole scene affected her brain ; 
but it was a sick faintness and dizziness which now stole 
over her, and not the fever of bitter anger : she had felt her- 
self, too, for long watched incessantly by a stranger, an 
Indian, whose swarthy countenance and gleaming eyes she 
now recollected had been fixed upon her ever and anon for 
hours, and her steps dogged by him, — who was he ? — not 
her husband, she was certain : yet, there was a familiar 
something about him which troubled and perplexed her 
like a nightmare. "With a strong effort, therefore, rallying 
her departing strength, Margaret intimated to Ludmilla 
that she would return home — Lushington would see her 
into her carriage, she knew, — so Ludmilla and the good 
Hofrath must not lose an hour of the festival on her 
account. 

How unutterably weary, heart-sick, and bewildered, did 
Margaret von Ehrenberg feel, as, sunk back in the cor- 
ner of the carriage, she was whirled away through the 
darkness, from that carnival madness, to her quiet, and, 
until this miserable day, her happy little home ! But still 
the memory of her cousin's pure and ennobling spirit 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. 59 

whispered peace and strength. Yes ! she would strain every 
nerve, endure everything, — only, with Grod's help, she would, 
indeed, act up to her high standard of the right ! 

" Carl," cried Margaret, springing out of the carriage 
when she reached her home, " is the Baron returned ?" 

" He is not, gracious lady." And Margaret again felt 
such a faint dizziness creep over her, that it was only through 
an almost superhuman effort that she did not fall prostrate 
across the threshold. 



CHAPTEK VXI. 

A GKREEN SPOT IN THE DESEET. 

The sweet voices of the bells calling to matins dropped with 
holy sounds through the dark heavens from the many- 
steeples of the Munich Churches, when Margaret von 
Ehrenberg's burning eyes closed upon her pillow, and a 
drowsiness creeping over her exhausted, agitated frame, she 
sunk into an almost lethargic sleep, in which neither the 
holy bells nor the maddening turmoil of the artists' ball, nor 
the pure countenance of her cousin, nor the memory of 
bitter heart-sickness, affected her, more than if she had been 
sleeping the quiet sleep of death itself. But this blessed 
peace could not have lasted long, ere she was startled by 
founds which brought back her misery, her agitation, with 
an anguish all the more acute from the profound peace out 
of which she was aroused : she heard her husband's step in 
the adjoining room, 

" Conrad !" cried she, springing up from her pillow, " Oh, 
Conrad, thank Grod you are there !" 

But no answer was returned. Oh, had he not heard her, 
thought she ; but in a moment he would stand in her pre- 
sence : a cold tremor seized her whole frame, and her throat 
felt parched. " Dear Conrad !" cried she, in her old voice of 
affection ; yet again there was no reply. In a moment more 
her hand was upon the lock, but she heard the bolt drawn 
on the other side ! She could have sank upon the ground ! 
Eor a moment the old indignation again flashed through her 
soul. " Conrad !" exclaimed she, in a hoarse voice, " what 
am I to understand by your extraordinary conduct, at a 
time, Oh, God ! when rather it is I " 

" Madam !" returned the voice of the Baron, as his hasty 
steps suddenly ceased in the next room. " Madam ! have 
I not already desired you to cease lecturing me ? I am, 
believe me, in a temper less ready to endure your goadings 
and childish reproaches than I was this morning, even. 
You've seen but the sunshine, — the tempest may break over 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. Gl 

you if you goad me too far — so beware ! To endure your 
senseless upbraidings at a time, Margaret, when life is a 
very hell to me — " and the Baron's words were broken by a 
deep groan, and a sound as though he had flung himself on 
the sofa. 

" Oh, Conrad ! open the door to me," pleaded the 
miserable Baroness ; "ami not your wife ? if you have 
bitter misery, it is I who will share it with you, who will 
lighten it for you : how could I goad, distress you ! Oh, 
Conrad ! in the name of Christ, open to me !" 

But the Baron was once more heard pacing the room with 
hasty steps. 

" Begone with you ! I can manage my own affairs without 
your interference !" cried he, fiercely and peremptorily, 
through the door. Margaret slunk back to her pillow, 
a war of the most bitter and contradictory feelings rending 
her soul. Alas, some horrible misery had befallen upon her 
husband ; and this thought annihilated every remembrance 
of her own wrongs : it was this which had changed his 
nature, which doubtless contained within it the secret of that 
unworthy action about her pearls. Oh, how willingly would 
she forgive all, — how willingly aid him to endure all, nobly, 
bravely, — would he but believe this of her, — but permit it to 
her ! Then a voice of distrust arose within her, but with 
indignation and love she silenced it ; listening, listening ever 
from her pillow to each movement and rustle made by her 
husband. He seemed to her gradually to return to com- 
posure. She heard him stir up the fire in the stove, — she 
heard him open his escrutoire, — she heard him draw a chair 
towards it, — she heard him searching over his papers, — she 
heard him writing, — she heard him enter his dressing-room, 
where he remained a space. It was now gradually becoming 
light ; again and again she thought she would once more 
attempt to speak with him, but drowsiness stole over her as 
she felt that the violence of his anger was passing away. — 
" Oh, patience ! patience !" murmured she, a smile stealing 
over her white face as it sank upon her pillow, — " Patience ! 
patience ! and God in time will send all peace and blessed- 
ness !" In her dreams she seemed to hear her husband's 
voice in familiar talk with Barbette, and a strange, com- 
fortable clatter of cups and saucers. 



62 MAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

" The Baron bid me not disturb the gracious lady for 
several hours," screamed Barbette's shrill voice at her mis- 
tress's ear : — " but it is quite noonday ; and there has been 
a tall foreign gentleman just here to enquire after the lady 
Baroness's health this morning ; and there is the note which 
the Baron bid me give to the gracious lady when she awoke, 
— he would not disturb you again, he said !" 

Margaret, with bewildered eyes, read the letter which 
Barbette put into her trembling hand. 

" My dear "Wife, — Tour generous heart, I am sure, will 
forgive the cruel and hasty words which passed my lips last 
night. Dearest Margaret, we will bury them in oblivion. If 
you knew the anguish which an unlucky piece of business has 
occasioned me the last day or two, you would indeed pardon 
my outbreak of temper. And the distress of mind I have 
suffered on your account, having been forced as, alas ! you 
will already have seen, to clear myself by pledging your dear 
mother's pearls. But I knew you would yourself have been 
the first to oifer them had you known my position. I was 
about to confess to you what I had done yesterday morning, 
— but, at the moment, your just reproaches were the last 
drop of bitterness in my cup, — and you know the sequel ! 
I was too unhappy to endure the idea of the ball, and have 
been arranging my papers and various small matters for a 
short journey which I am obliged to take to settle the un- 
pleasant little business I refer to, and which we will discuss 
together when I return. Dismiss all anxiety from your too 
anxious loving heart, dear wife ; and forgive, as I know you 
will, your unworthy but 

" Most affectionate and admiring Husband, 

" COKBAD VON" EhEEKBEEG." 

" P.S. I beseech of you to forget utterly the miserable 
scene of last night. I do believe I was possessed by a devil. 
But, possessing an angel in you, the devil has soon fled 
from me." 

Margaret read and re-read, as soon as she had dismissed 
her inquisitive Barbette, this singular document, — so in 
accordance with her former idea of the Baron von Ehrenberg 
in the affection it breathed,— -so utterly unlike the cruel, 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. 63 

imperious tyrant and unprincipled scnemer which he had 
appeared within the last eight-and-forty hours to her. But 
might not this confession in his letter explain all ? — he had 
been driven weakly to commit a mean, ungenerous action 
by her, and thus had lost all command of himself through 
the bitter reproaches of his own conscience : — if so, never 
should he be driven from the right path again through 
cowardly fear. She would be mild as she would be upright. 
Oh, yes ; she would bring all straight through the mighty 
power of love. Margaret did not allow herself to dwell 
upon anything but the hopeful side of the letter. It was so 
sweet to her to believe in his love, and in the possibility of 
his character regaining, at least somewhat, its former un- 
sullied beauty in her eyes. And the prospect of struggles, 
whether material or spiritual, at the moment only called 
forth an heroic strength and glow of soul within her. 

With an energy surprising to herself, she arose, andputting 
away all traces of the last night's mad merriment, so opposed 
to the stern calm thoughts which she had marshalled 
around her, she determined to banish every bitter remem- 
brance, and to commence a fresh chapter of her married life. 
With what pleasure did she recall the presence of Lushing- 
ton in Munich ! Although he would remain but two or 
three days, still to her it should be the sojourn of a very 
angel : in his calm presence, breathing the celestial atmo- 
sphere of his vast charity, carried forth from the petty cares 
of her own personal anxieties, her spirit should gather up its 
strength and prepare for future campaigns. 

This letter, too, of her husband's, and the information 
volunteered by Barbette that " the gracious gentleman had 
made a hearty breakfast before his departure, and had seemed 
vastly amiable," relieved Margaret's mind of a tremendous 
load of care. And, really, under the existing circumstances, 
and her own uncertainty regarding the Baron's conduct, 
it was a real satisfaction to know that her husband was safely 
away ; for her mind somewhat misgave her when she pictured 
to herself how her far-seeing cousin Lushington might have 
drawn inferences extremely wounding to her pride had he 
at this particular epoch seen the baronial pair together. 
Margaret sighed deeply, and with a certain self-contempt in 
her heart, when she recognised in herself a feeling until now 



61< MAEGAEET TON EHEEtfJJEEG. 

utterly unknown, — a distrust of her husband and a feeling 
of shame connected with him ; Now, thanks to his lucky 
journey, the effort of preserving a decent appearance of con- 
jugal affection would be much less ; though she probably 
would not, as at another time, have his name ever upon her 
lips, his presence would not embarrass her. Yes, unnatural 
as, three days ago, such a resolve would have appeared to 
her, she determened to put all thought of her wedded lord 
out of her heart for the next several days, — and that for his 
own sake as well as for hers ! Yes, she would only live in 
the surrounding peace. 

And truly she did so. The two days spent by the cousins 
and Ludmilla, who was almost invariably their companion, 
— an extraordinary mental sympathy having shewn itself 
between Lushington and Ludmilla on many points of 
spiritual belief, — if we may so word it, were days of gold. 
The studios of Kaulbach and Schwanthaler were visited, 
and the fresh worlds of thought opened to Lushington by 
the deeply philosophic art of Kaulbach and by the quaint 
and wildly poetical creations of Schwanthaler led to spirit- 
stirring discussions between the friends. The rich collections 
of statuary and painting contained in the Glyptothek and 
Pinakothek, and the lovely modern churches erected by 
the poet king Ludwig, were duly visited and rejoiced in by 
these three poetical minds. No portion of this bit of Para- 
dise remained more closely impressed upon their memories 
than the sledge-drive which they took one brilliant sunny 
afternoon to the little castle of Schwaneck, built by the 
sculptor Schwanthaler as a realization of many a fantastic 
youthful dream. There it rises solitarily and sternly upon 
a bend of the river Isar, hanging over its rushing green 
waters from a little promontory of the precipitous river 
banks, — a magical embodiment, in small, of the middle ages, 
and doubly affecting to the imagination as the creation and 
abode of that great and whimsical genius Schwanthaler, the 
glory of Munich. The thick beechen woods through which 
the friends drove rising in solemn leafless greyness around 
them from the crisp snowy carpet which overspread the 
earth ; the deep, cloudless blue of the sky above them ; 
the startling view from the castle windows ; the glorious vast 
stretch of plain, all white and glittering with the snow and 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 05 

bounded by the majestic chain of the Alps, which gleamed 
forth in the sunlight violet, azure, and rose, — all blending 
with the cheerful converse of the friends, — completed an 
almost perfect episode in their three lives. But, spite of 
her resolve, poor Margaret felt ever and anon a sharp twitch 
of secret mental pain in recalling her husband, and there 
arose within her a craving after tidings of him, — she was 
so utterly in the dark as regarded his movements, business, 
and anxieties. But all these gloomy thoughts she buried 
deeply in her breast. 

Another thing she buried also deeply in her breast ; but 
this was not gloomy, or one she did not dare dwell upon. 
On the contrary, throughout future months and years she 
was accustomed to draw it forth secretly and set it before 
her imagination, and dwell upon it with much pleasure, and 
build castles in the air regarding it. It was this : we have 
said that a singular mental sympathy showed itself between 
her beloved cousin and her beloved friend Ludmilla. It 
was a sympathy of spirit and of aspiration for the develop- 
ment of the ideal in life and character, which would have 
been almost unaccountable ; their mutual theories and aims 
being very original, and unlike any one's else except each 
others : yes, we say that this startling sympathy would have 
been doubly startling and unaccountable, except for one 
little circumstance,' — and this is it : Ludmilla, you may 
remember, good reader, was spoken of in an early chapter of 
our story as the Frau Boctorin, which translated into very 
vulgar English, is Mrs. Dr. ; therefore you see she was a 
married lady ; and yet how comes it, then, that we have 
never, in this veracious history, referred to her " good and 
excellent consort" as Ludmilla's father, in his peculiar 
English, would have worded it ? We have never referred to 
him because, good man, he had several years before our 
friend Ludmilla appears on the scene departed from this 
world of imperfection on his journey to one of perfection 
and beauty, as himself and Ludmilla believed, where first 
his craving and aspiring and loving spirit could attain what 
it had never yet attained here — peace. This dead husband 
of Ludmilla, though scarcely more than a youth in years, 
had achieved for himself a niche among the rarest philoso- 
phic and poetic minds of his country ; but there was a 

E 



66 MAEGAEET TON EHEENEEEG. 

subtle, extraordinary, and mystic spirit hung around the on© 
great work of his short life, which rendered it as a veiled 
tabernacle to the world at large, but which, parting at the 
touch of kindred spiritual seekers, revealed — so they said — 
the very inmost sanctuary of life. Lushington was a fellow r ~ 
worker and dreamer in the same realms of thought ; the 
name of Ludmilla's husband had long been written upon 
the walls of his soul's Valhalla as the name of a valiant 
hero, whose sword of burning thought had slain many an 
evil dwarf, hideous sorcerer, and cruel giant in this weary 
world of ours, and whose hand had planted over their graves 
and demolished dungeons the herbs Charity, Mercy, and 
.Faith, upon which fell everlastingly divine dews and sun- 
shine. Thus when upon inquiring from Margaret whether the 
name of her friend denoted any connection with this 
cherished heroic name, w T hich glowed ever in his soul as a 
watch- word of action and a beacon of safety when tossed to 
and fro upon the ocean of life, he heard that she had been 
the wife of this man, and that too the wife of his spiritual 
being, although their union had been that but of a few 
months, she stood before him encircled by a shadowy glory 
as of the haloes of saints. And the more Margaret told 
him about Ludmilla's marriage, the more did he feel inte- 
rested. She told him of her enthusiastic devotion to the 
departing poet, whose fate she had united with her own, 
fulJy conscious of the stern inevitable parting awaiting 
them, but blessing her fate as glorious and enviable, in the 
power which was thus conferred upon her of cheering the 
suffering spirit by a sublime human love, and of ministering 
to the human wants of an angel who was still clad in the 
weeds of mortality. It was not with Ludmilla that Lush- 
ington, however, might venture upon any reference to the 
dead yet immortal poet, for Margaret told him the wound 
in Ludmilla's soul bled at the slightest touch. All, too, was 
still so strangely mysterious ; according to certain revelations 
of Ludmilla to her friend, a wondrous spiritual bond even 
yet seemed to unite the pair, though separated by the gulf of 
death. Ludmilla constantly, in dreams and visions, declared 
that she was guided by her departed husband : thus all that 
regarded him was sacred to Ludmilla as her religion. Mar- 
garet — who, though possessing a deal of imagination, had 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 67 

more of the practical and the common-place, one might 
almost call it, in her nature than Ludmilla — at times felt 
almost inclined to smile at her friend's earnest belief in 
these ghostly fancies ; but with Lushington it was different ; 
they sank into his heart, and he pondered and pondered 
upon them. He himself confessed that gift, whatever it is, 
of the mesmeriser ; and not alone his large bright eyes were 
endowed with the magical power of casting others into the 
mesmeric trance, but had themselves been opened to visions 
of seraphic beauty and awe. 

Thus it is no wonder that these two souls sympathised 
with each other with a more than common sympathy, or 
that Margaret, whose passionate early love of Lushington 
had long subsided into a calm ennobling friendship, wit- 
nessing this sympathy, should suffer her imagination and 
her affection for those two beings, so dear to her, to weave 
lovingly the perhaps improbable bonds which should link the 
two together. 

But a day of parting arrives even for the dearest of friends, 
and thus, willingly as Lushington would have lingered in 
Munich, he is speeding his way towards the Alps, across 
which he learns it is already possible for him to penetrate 
on his way to Italy. 



CHAPTEE VIII. 



GATHERING TEMPESTS. 



Several days have passed since the departure of Lush- 
ington, and yet Margaret has received no tidings of her 
husband. She listens hour after hour for the postman's 
ring ; she watches the blue-coated officials up and down the 
street with an anxiety hitherto quite unknown to her. She 
begins to feel the absurdity of her position, in being so 
utterly ignorant of her husband's movements. But surely he 
will be back immediately. This very fact of his not writing, 
she thinks, proves to her the possibility of his almost hourly 
return. Certainly it was but for a very few days that he 
had left home, he had taken so little luggage with him, — 
Barbette said only a carpet bag, which he carried in his 
hand ; if he were going to prolong his journey, or were de- 
tained unexpectedly, he would surely write. But day after 
day went on, and no letter arrived. Really it was rather 
odd this silence ; and she was growing very anxious to consult 
with him upon various little things. Barbette had made a 
very unpleasant discovery, about which she was extremely 
mysteriously loquacious with her mistress, and which 
certainly greatly troubled Margaret ; and this was, that a 
pair of silver salt-cellars, which were rarely used, and half-a- 
dozen dessert spoons, and a dozen silver forks, were gone ! 
They had all been wrapt together in a parcel, and lay in a 
cheffonier drawer in the drawing-room. There was no rea- 
son to suppose that any suspicious person had been about 
the place : all remained in the cheffonier just as usual, except 
this packet of plate. The only person whom either Barbette 
or her mistress could in the least suspect was Carl, the 
Baron's servant, who did not live in the house, but came at 
certain hours in the day — no unusual system of domestic 
economy in small German households — to attend to the 
Baron's commands. He had always shewn himself an 
honest man, his only apparent faults being a hasty temper 
a-nd a love of gossip : and it was extremely distressing to 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 69 

have any thing so miserable occur, which should cast a slur 
of dishonesty upon him. Barbette besought her mistress, 
with every demonstration of terror, not to speak to Carl, he 
was so terribly violent ; " and oh ! the gracious lady did not 
know what wretches these sort of people were. Was there 
not, only two years ago, that wicked servant of the poor 

Baroness , who, whilst his master was out, cut his 

young mistress's throat, because she would not give him 
money to pay a debt of his, or let him pawn his master's 
uniform ; and then cut the servant girl's throat lest she 
should betray him ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! her gracious lady 
couldn't imagine how bad they were these kind of folks ; 
but she knew this as a fact, and all Munich knew it. Oh, 
she knew it ; had not she been to the wretch's execution ? 
and if her gracious lady doubted it, she'd show her a bit of a 
handkerchief dipped in the murderer's blood, which a dear 
friend had given her as a charm against the ague ! And 
could not every body any day see the poor old man, the 
unhappy Baroness's father, in deep mourning, crawling 
along the streets ? Oh dear, dear, dear ! her gracious lady 
would never speak to Carl about the missing silver ; he'd cut 
their throats, that he would, as sure as look at them !" 

Margaret, although standing in less awe of Carl's unbridled 
temper than Barbette, had, it must be confessed, also a cer- 
tain mistrust of " that kind of folk," and would willingly 
defer all investigation of the affair till her husband's return, 
knowing also well the tedious formalities of every police 
investigation. Oh, if he would but return ! Sometimes, 
also, she began to distrust poor talkative Barbette. She 
was excessively annoyed, but, until her husband was back, 
she could really take no steps to clear up this unpleasant 
business. 

Another cause of growing anxiety she had, and this was 
her own shortness of money. There had been a deal of ex- 
pense for the last many months, to say nothing of small 
extra outla}^ about the artists' ball, which had pretty nearly 
drained her private fund : certainly there was money of her 
husband's, she knew, in the bank ; but, without his signa- 
ture, how could she obtain any of it ? Besides, the Baron 
had always expressed an extreme repugnance to his wife 
being seen publicly in any sort of money transactions of his, 



70 MARGAKET VON EHRENBEEG. 

and had even deposited her money himself, and in his name, 
in the bank. He had often himself laughed about this with 
her most good-humoureclly. Really, it was very perplexing ! 
Barbette, too, worried her about getting in a fresh supply 
of wood, — which is the fuel of Munich. " The wood was just 
at an end, and the gracious lady must have another wagon- 
load ; it would be long before the warm weather came. 
Herr Je ! did she understand her gracious lady aright ? 
Did her gracious lady think it was warm now ? Why, her 
gracious lady's face was as blue as a bilberry ! And besides, 
if her gracious lady in the parlour could paint her pictures 
without fire, she could assure her gracious lady she could 
not cook without it in the kitchen ; and, the holy Virgin ! 
she would not : no, she had been out ever so early that very 
morning, through all the frost and snow, whilst her mistress 
was asleep so warm under her plumeau, all that long way to 
the wood-market ; and cold, bitter cold, it was, as her poor 
little bowels knew, for she'd got by her devotion to her gra- 
cious lady a mighty bad cold in her inside ; and she'd bar- 
gained, — and very hard it was, since the frost set in again, to 
make a bargain with the rough peasants, the frost made 
them so impudent, — and if her gracious lady would only gra- 
ciously look out of the window, she'd see what a fine beau- 
teous little load of wood she'd bought !" 

And sure enough there was a beauteous, big load of the 
finest beech wood — the most expensive kind of wood, by the 
by — unloading, with a great jabbering of a couple of peasant 
men in their broad-brimmed, sloutching hats, and black- 
velvet jackets ; and of the women, in their scarlet and their 
woollen petticoats, and pink and white striped boddices, who 
were waiting to chop up and carry away the wood. Mar- 
garet was fairly caught in Barbette's wood- trap : and her 
last carefully-hoarded florins, too ! And what a sawing and 
sawing, and chopping and chopping, there was for hours ! 
And how the gossip between Barbette and the withered 
old crone, in her brilliant attire, who carried up upon her 
shoulders, in a long basket, the sawn wood, irritated every 
nerve in Margaret's body, and made her feel almost frantic, 
and so irritable that she could not even paint ! 

Really it was too bad of the fascinating Baron to have left 
his adored wife subjected to such petty miseries ! 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 71 

But that very afternoon, whilst the stream of wood was 
still ascending the staircase, a more serious annoyance 
arrived. Barbette ushered into Margaret's studio a grave 
young man, who presented to the Baroness a wafered letter, 
on opening which she read, in the German character and 
language of course, these words, — " Messrs, Schneider and 
Kleider present their compliments to the highly well-born 
the Baroness von Ehrenberg, and beg to forward to her their 
account, as desired by the highly well-born the Baron von 
Ehrenberg." 

And hereupon followed a list of sundry coats, waistcoats, 
and trousers ; and also of a fur-lined travelling-cloak, which, 
it appeared, the delightful Baron had ordered within the last 
week before his departure. 

Margaret stood petrified as her eyes fell upon the words, 
— " The gracious lady will see all is correct by looking at 
this note, to-day received from Lausanne by Messrs. 
Schneider and Kleider, — the honourable Baron von Ehren- 
berg wrote to inform my employer that the clothes had 
reached him at Augsburg, as he commanded, all perfectly to 
his satisfaction ; and you will perceive that he says, that at 
any time we might call with the account upon the gracious 
lady ; and as Messrs. Schneider and Kleider are making 
up a rather heavy account, they have taken the liberty 
immediately to act upon the honourable gentleman's 
permission." 

" I have not at the moment so much money in the house , 
but I will look over the account, and if correct attend to it," 
replied Margaret, with a cold, haughty voice. 

" It would greatly oblige Messrs. Schneider and Kleider 
if, at her earliest convenience, the gracious lady could " 

" I have already told you, that when I have looked over 
the account I will attend to it, — good morning !" 

When the young man had bowed himself out, Margaret 
wrung her hands in despair, and paced the room round and 
round with frantic steps. "Oh, Conrad! Conrad! how bitterly 
cruel ! Another miserable deception ! Oh, Grod !" groaned 
she. " But yes, depend upon it, it is so ! — yes, again I may 
be doing him an injustice — such bitter forgetfulness of me 
never can be his ; — yes, depend upon it, at the bank I shall 
find he has made all necessary arrangements. Oh, Heaven 



72 MAEGAEET TOtf ETCBENBEEO-. 

be praised that this suggestion has occurred to me : — yes, 
Conrad, only in the distress of mind you suffered, and the 
hurry of your sudden journey, you have forgotten to mention 
this !" And hastily throwing on her bonnet and cloak, she 
sped away to the bank. 

How wildly her heart beat as she entered the quaint old 

portal of the banker Baron 's Bureau ! how the 

solemn faces of the clerks, and the huge iron-bound chest, nail- 
studded and richly adorned with mediaeval iron scroll-work, 
which occupied a conspicuous position in the bureau, affected 
her imagination : she felt— she scarcely knew why — a cul- 
prit ! and as though her voice would fail her ; — but no, what 
absurd childishness ! Although she now possessed but a few 
kreutzers, so small and few, indeed, that the rings had slipped 
off her purse over them into her pocket, the Baron had 
money there, she knew — that iron chest must disgorge 
some for her. " Could she speak with Baron ?" she 



" He was gone home." 

" Well, then, with the principal clerk ?" 

" "Yes, certainly — the speaker was he." 

" The Baron von Ehrenberg, her husband, :" at these 

words all the other clerks turned round and stared at her, 
she felt, — nay smiled, it seemed to her excited fancy. Oh ! 
why did the silly blood rush to her face ? " The Baron 
von Ehrenberg," she pursued, in a firmer voice, " her hus- 
band, before going a short journey, had, she believed, left in 
their hands certain money to be paid to her." 

The head clerk's face remained extremely unresponsive, 
— nay never, certainly, was a more perfect blank of a face 
seen. 

" In the hurry of departure the Baron had not clearly 
explained " 

" The Baroness, for such, I presume, I must consider you, 
Madame," remarked the head clerk, with extreme indiffe- 
rence, taking up a pen and mending it, — Margaret's cheeks 
burning with indignation the while, and indignation almost 
choking her, — " the Baroness must have a siugular want of 
knowledge of the highly honourable Baron's affairs, if such 
is her supposition. The Baron drew out of our hands all 
the remainder of his money, or, to speak more correctly, we 



THE ABTIST-WXFE. 73 

have given him a letter of credit to the amount of his remain- 
ing capital upon and in Lausanne. Here," said the 

clerk, with his nonchalant manner if anything increasing, 
" the lady may see the papers relating to the transaction in 
our hands :" and running carelessly over a number of papers 
which he drew forth from his desk, he held one before the 
astounded eyes of the miserable wife, bearing date a week 
anterior to the Baron's departure. It seemed to Margaret 
that a sort of titter ran round from desk to desk, and the 
head clerk blew his nose in a remarkably sonorous manner 
upon his scarlet India silk-handkerchief. 

Margaret, in the twilight of that cold, early March 
evening, was rapidly hurrying along through the busy 
streets and out on to the solitary, snowy plain : on and on 
she rushed with frantic haste : on and on, unconscious of all 
around her, but impelled by a bitter anguish within her soul, 
which urged her on, whither she knew not — she cared not ! 
Could she have fled utterly away from Munich, from 
memory, from herself, how blessed would it have been to 
her ! A terrible gulf seemed to yawn before her : wherever 
she turned for peace it fled her yearning soul: gloomy 
phantoms, which had long whispered with voices which she 
had ever ignored, now boldly stood before her, jibbering and 
mocking : that which she had put aside with indignant, 
wounded scorn, was a miserably triumphant fact — her hus- 
band's actions were actions premeditated and base ; though 
her heart shrunk from uttering the words, her reason held 
up before her affrighted spirit a logical thesis of his deeds. 

" Oh, God ! guide thou me aright through this fiery 
ordeal I" murmured she, and her burning eyes, raised 
towards the heavens, saw calm cold stars gleaming down 
upon her from the dark sky, and glimmering between the 
shivering leafless branches of the tall poplar-trees, which in 
weird lines skirted the straight dreary road along which she 
was hurrying. She suddenly paused : the night breeze 
whispered gently among the leafless branches and swept 
over her fevered cheek, — the intense silence, alone stirred by 
the rustle of the breeze among the trees, and by a far-distant 
bell from a village church calling to vespers, smote strangely 
upon her heart : she seemed to feel her fevered blood pause in 
its course, and then calmed, as by a healthful sleep, pursue its 



74 MARGAEET VON EHRENBERG. 

way through her veins gently, sweetly ; a dense mist seemed 

to pass from her brain — her pathway through the trials 

before her lay clear and keenly defined. She already had a 

presentiment of the very worst which could happen to her : 

but a courage, a fertility of imagination, a capacity of work, 

developed themselves suddenly within her, as though they 

were the divine answer to her prayer. " "What matter to 

me, in presence of these calm, stars and this whispering wind, 

the pitiful scorn and jeers of those ignorant clerks," said she 

to her inmost soul ; " what would matter even the contempt 

and misconception of the whole world, provided that the 

divine eye recognise the truth, and bless ! There is, after 

all, a glory in steering, like a wise, wary pilot, among the 

shoals and breakers of life, carrying the human soul in safety 

through the most imminent of dangers, and entering the 

haven of rest, — though it be with riven masts and shattered 

shrouds ! One's heart burns when recalling heroes and 

martyrs : let one's heart burn in becoming hero — martyr 

even, if need be ! Is not, to every pilgrim along the chequered 

road of life, offered both the laurel of the hero and 

the palm of the saint ? Oh, that my brow may be found 

worthy to be shadowed by their dear leaves, besought 

Margaret's trembling lips; oh, that my astonished eyes, 

when first the effulgence of celestial glory bursts upon 

them, may be shaded and preserved from blindness by the 

holy shadows of these dear, dear leaves ! And, oh, let me 

bless the hand that wounds ! Let not, oh Father! my words 

or my deeds be curses upon the mistaken, unhappy, ignorant 

hand which wounds : but let, rather, the evil be converted 

into good, both for himself and for me ! Let the con 

sequences of his deeds towards me, who am his wife, the 

soul united to his in Thy sight, by my own act and deed, 

not now, through bitter resentment and disloyal rage, add 

darker blots against him ! Let me, who see with mournful, 

clear vision the consequences of his blindness to high 

honour and principle, convert, so far as in me lies, the evil 

into blessedness — avert his double guilt. Good, Thou 

hast said, ever is stronger than evil : let good intention and 

devoted energy cut off the current of blind, ignorant, and 

unreflecting evil. Yes, Father ! I feel within my soul 

energy, aspiration, determination, which alone could have 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 75 

been pressed forth from the heart together with tears of 
blood. Was not our blessed Lord the man of sorrows and 
acquainted with grief ? And who, having listened to his 
Evangel, ever can strive to dissever in his soul the twins, 
Love and Sorrow, — the two are co-existing, mutually purify- 
ing, ennobling : who knoweth not the one knoweth not the 
other ! who willingly resigneth not his spirit rejoicingly to 
tread at humblest distance the Yia Dolorosa, with the blessed 
Man of Sorrows, deserveth not the triumph and the bliss ! 
Father, Thy wiU be done !" 

With steps scarcely less rapid, but firmer, prouder than 
those that had carried her forth from the city, she now re- 
traced her way : she perceived that no money either of her 
own just earning remained to her, or yet any of her hus- 
band's : she felt that all the furniture, all the few pictures 
which she had for years treasured as her most precious 
possessions — pictures which she had copied in the Dresden 
G-allery and the Munich Pinakothek, and which were a 
school of art to her — her own sketches and studies, also, must 
be turned into money. As far as lay in human power, every 
one should have their just own : she would shield her hus- 
band's honour, let whatever betide. Grod had endowed her 
with gifts which alone must be employed for the service of 
others, she now perceived, — not for the sole selfish gratifica- 
tion of her artist eyes and her artist spirit. Though it 
would be like parting with her very children, to part with 
many of those pictures, part with them she must. Thank 
Heaven ! to part with the creative faculty within her was 
not demanded from her ! — she, whose every fibre of the soul 
acknowledged the unutterable superiority of spiritual to 
external beauty, ought not to feel the sacrifice so very 
bitter ; yet bitter tears swelled her heart, as she thought of 
selling certain of her favourites, for it seemed desecration to 
her. " But the more bitter the sacrifice, the worthier of my 
love!" sighed she. She had already determined many things 
in her mind which must be done : among others, she would 
pledge her watch immediately, it being the only valuable 
trinket she now possessed, since her pearls had been so 
miserably lost. The hours of trial had already arrived : she 
would do this on her way home, were it already not too late 
in the evening to do so. In Munich the pawnbroking 



7(> MABGAEET YON EHBENBERG. 

establishments are governmental, as in various other parts 
of the continent: in Munich, also, connected with these 
establishments, is a singular sisterhood — a band of old crones, 
facetiously designated " the coffee-sisters," because they 
principally subsist upon coffee, which they meet to drink to- 
gether at certain low coffee-houses. The profession of these 
said sisters is the carrying to the pawning establishments, 
for a small per-centage, in blessed secresy, the properties 
squeezed by necessity from despairing mortals, reduced, like 
our heroine, by their dire fate to solicit the tender mercies 
of that benevolent relative designated by the English " my 
uncle," by the French "my aunt." Margaret had often 
heard of the " coffee-sisters," and knew, it seemed, where 
to discover their haunts ; for, passing beneath a low-browed 
archway, which spanned the street she had now struck into, 
a group of these old hags, with blear eyes, hanging lips, and 
skinny fingers, approached her suddenly and stealthily from 
oat the gloom of a heavy old door. " Does the gracious lady 
want her little business done prettily ?" chimed these cracked 
old voices, iu discordant whispers ; " We are the girls to do 
it pretty !" 

" Here, take my watch," said Margaret, hurriedly re- 
moving it from her neck, " You must bring me as much as 
you can for it," and she placed it in the bony red hands of 
the most human-looking of the trio. " We'll do it in a trice 
right prettily, for the pretty Madame," grinned the crone, 
winking, and grimacing, and hobbling away, her sisters dis- 
appearing back again in the gloomy doorway, as suddenly as 
they had appeared. 

Margaret paced up and down the dark streets uncomfort- 
able enough, for it might be ten minutes, filled with incon- 
ceivable terrors about her watch having disappeared for 
ever. But, diabolical as the hag looked, she was honest at 
least, and duly placed in Margaret's hand, with many a 
hollow chuckle and quaint leer, as though a corbel in an old 
church had been laughing, a small sum in broad silver pieces. 
" The dainty Madame has got but a bit of a sum for her fine 
gold watch ; bat the gentleman up yonder," making a queer 
sign with her grisly finger, " has given such lots of handsome 
silver pieces these two days to the gentlefolks this carnival 
time, that he says he can't give you a kreutzer more, 'an you 



THE AKTIST-WIFE. 77 

were Queen Theresa herself — bless her Majesty!" And, 
kissing Margaret's hand, much to our heroine's astonish- 
ment and dismay, as she received a douceur somewhat above 
the ordinary stipulated one, the old hag, beseeching bless- 
ing upon Margaret, and a speedy return, vanished into her 
mysterious gloom. 

The silver pieces were very few ; still Margaret could have 
pressed them to her lips, so thankful was she for the relief 
they would afford. 

" If they are few," said she to herself, " all the better, 
perhaps ; they will sooner be returned." " The world shrinks 
away with disgust at the mere word ' pawn-ticket,' yet here 
I have one in my empty purse, and yet not a sensation of 
shame do I feel in my full heart. Did we but know the 
secrets of many a purer, better heart than mine, probably 
pawn-ticket would there be inscribed also : ' Truly to the 
pure, all things may be pure.' " 

And Margaret, although she had pawned her watch, 
walked proudly homewards. 

A certain sinking of heart some way, however, crept over 
her when she found herself once more within her own walls. 
The familiar objects seemed to fill her mind with sick 
thoughts ; it seemed to her as though demons lurked to- 
night in the recesses of the room, instead of her guardian 
angels ; the very clock seemed to tick words of distressing 
import. But she ordered her grand consoler and reviver, 
tea ; and sipping it, still more and more arranged matters in 
Her mind. She wrote down a list of all the things which 
she knew she herself had to pay. They were but mere trifles. 
There were this provoking bill of Schneider and Kleider's, — 
alas ! perhaps there might still be more. There was the 
house-rent — there were the servants' wages. "Yes, certainly, 
with disposing of their furniture, all could be arranged. 
" Oh ! that Conrad had but thought of these things, — 
probably he would be very angry with her for doing all this, 
— but there was nothing to choose between this bitter dis- 
pleasure, and injustice and dishonour. " No, it must be 
done." Sometimes she longed to consult in her extremity 
with Ludmilla, but " No ;" Ludmilla and her parents were 
poor — she could not, whatever might be her need, accept 
the slightest loan from these dear people. Ludmilla, she 



78 MARGARET VON EHREKBERG. 

always felt, too, bad someway mistrusted the Baron. " ISTo; 
she could not now to her breathe a word against him." 
The Hofrath, kind and learned man as he was, was no man 
of business ; she well knew, therefore, to consult with him 
would only complicate affairs. No, it was for her to act 
alone. 

She inspected with a heavy heart her -various pictures, 
and determined how, the first thiug next morning, she would 

go and see and about disposing of them. In doing 

this, her eye fell upon the two extraordinary paintings sent, 
as the reader may remember, by Mr. Xavier. She had never 
learnt the history connected with them — nay, until, closely 
inspecting them, she discovered at the back of the frames 
Xavier' s name and address at full, she did not even know 
whence they came. She now determined to send to Mr. 
Xavier for him to fetch them away, and being in an active, 
business mood, as we have seen, she wrote her letter there 
and then. Another letter she also wrote to the picture- 
dealer in England for whom she had made the copies of 
pictures at Dresden, proposing to copy for him at the 
Pinakothek. There should not remain a stone unturned in 
her endeavours after freedom from debt. 

The evening was already, for German manners, far ad- 
vanced—it might have been between nine and ten o'clock, 
for the deafening drum of the evening guard had sounded 
adown-the street. It was long passed the hours for visitors, 
when a startling ring pealed through the house. Margaret 
started up breathless — perhaps it was the Baron returned ! 
Oh, might it only be so ! 

Barbette was heard to go down to the porte-cochere to 
open it, and the unaccountable but heavy footsteps of men 
were heard ascending with Barbette, and gruff voices were 
heard drowning her expostulations. 



CHAPTEB IX. 



STIOALS AND BEEAkEES 



"White as a ghost, Barbette flung open the studio- do or, 
and behind her reared the tail stern green figures of a couple 
of gendarmes, the light from Margaret's lamp glittering and 
gleaming upon their shining leathern helmets, their belts and 
bayonets. And behind the gendarmes loomed forth two other 
unrelenting figures with dogged hard faces. " Oh ! they 
will take the gracious lady to prison, Oh, Herr Je ! Herr Je ! 
Jesus — Maria — Petrus — Paulus and Nicholdus !" screamed 
Barbette, hysterically flinging herself at Margaret's feet, 
and seizing wildly at her dress, " there's the prison omnibus 
below, the blessed Holy Virgin ! Herr Jesus ! Maria !" and 
she frantically wrung her hands. 

Margaret, sternly pushing Barbette aside, rose white as 
marble, and in a haughty voice demanded the meaning of 
this extraordinary visit. 

One of the gendarmes very curtly unfolded a terribly 
official-looking document, by no means as short as the 
gendarme's manner, written upon very coarse paper, and in 
order that she might entertain no doubt regarding its import, 
read aloud, " How in default of payment of the just demands 
of Messrs. Schneider and Kleider, they the said Messrs. 
Schneider and Kleider were empowered by the police of the 
city of Munich to seize upon the person of Margaret von 
Ehrenberg nee Harwood, and wife of Conrad Adelbert 
Baron von Ehrenberg, and throw her into prison, until the 
debts contracted by her said husband, Conrad Adelbert 
Baron von Ehrenberg, were duly and fully paid." 

" What a most unjustifiable proceeding is this, gentle- 
men !" exclaimed Margaret, with flashing eyes. Barbette, 
be it observed, during the reading of the document had 
picked herself up and was whimpering and sobbing with her 
head and arms hanging over the back of her mistress's 
chair. " Are you," pursued Margaret turning abruptly to the 
two dogged men who accompanied the police-officers — " Are 



80 MATLGARET TO!?* ElIEENBEBG. 

you, pray, Messrs. Schneider and Kleider ? Did I not assure 
you, this very day, that your bill should be settled when I had 
had time to ascertain whether it was correct ? "What plea, 
therefore, can you possibly have for persecuting me, when my 
husband is absent, in this outrageous manner ? the debt is, 
besides, not mine ; what possible right, therefore, can exist 
for your seizing upon my person ?" 

" The right which is given us by the law of the land, Lady 
Baroness," returned one of the men, brutally, " the debt is 
your husband's : it is equally the same as if you yourself 
had contracted it. I should suppose you know," said the 
man, with a coarse laugh, " that marriage makes man and wife 
into one flesh and bone — so it matters little which half of 
the married pair endures the penalties of the law ! But come, 
Lady Baroness, we won't be hard upon you, if you'll settle 
this little account. It's unpleasant to us to be reduced to 
extremities ; but we lose so much by the scampish system 
of our customers absconding, Lady Baroness, that we're de- 
termined to be pretty sharp in future; and as there are, I 
frankly tell you, Madam, very uncomfortable rumours got 
abroad about the Baron von Ehrenberg, my Herrn Colleague 
and I, to-night, at our beer-club, talked the matter over, 
with our friend Wolf, with whom the Baroness has had 
dealings, we understand," pursued the blunt speaker, with a 
sly wink : " and we thought, Mr. Lamm and I — Mr. Lamm, 
the Gentleman and Lady's (xlove-maker, Residenz-Gasse — 
he's also brought, as he'll show the Lady Baroness, his little 
bill — that we'd just step over to the police,and bring a couple 
of green stag-beetles with us to assure the Lady Baroness 
that we mean what we say, and do what we mean !" shouted 
the burly man, striking his fist upon the table, and growing 
vastly red in the face, as he worked himself up into an 
excitement. Lamm echoed the words, "we mean what we 
say, and we do what we mean!" also striking his fist upon 
the table, and shouting with anything but a lamb-like voice. 
" But, gentlemen," urged Margaret, speaking quietly, but 
most firmly, whilst Barbette moaned and sobbed, and kept 
impotently wringing her hands and then falling prostrate 
and limp over the chair-back, — " But, gentlemen, do have a 
3ittle reason and common sense !" 

"Common sense, Madam!" growled the red-faced man 



THE AETIST-WIFE. 81 

who we believe was Mr. Sehneider." " Common sense !" 
echoed Lamm, swelling himself out and endeavouring to 
emulate the redness and bluster of Schneider ; " common 
sense, indeed, Madam ! — that's just it : we have common 
sense." 

" But will you hear me speak, gentlemen ?" pursued Mar- 
garet, with an astonishing calmness and patience. " I have 
every intention of settling these bills of yours ; but to-night 
it is impossible ; I have not one-tenth part of the money in the 
house." " Then, if you can't pay, you must, you shall, come 
along with us ; we'll have no more of these manner of tricks. 
Carry her off, police !" cried Schneider — and the tall 
green men stepped forward — " or pay us, Madam, pay us !" 
bellowed he, doubling his big fist and shaking it in her face \ 
" we've the law on our side, and we'll have our money this 
night, or you shall sleep upon prison straw !" 

Margaret drew back with a mien so calm yet imperious 
that the very gendarmes dropped their arms by their sides, 
and stood stock-still, as if being drilled. 

" Touch me at your peril !" cried she, with flashing eyes. 
" I have promised to pay you, if you remain civil : if you 
force me away to-night, I will die in prison rather than that 
one gulden of mine shall ever pass into your hands. It is 
infamous persecution, and you will bitterly rue any insult 
offered to me. Eemember I am an Englishwoman, and 
neither prisons nor police shall move me from breaking my 
word. Touch me, and not one gulden shall you have ! 
But my intention is honourably to pay every kreutzer of the 
money owing to you, if you behave as men and not as fools. 
I give you my word as an Englishwoman to do this." 

Margaret's words were spoken with such extraordinary 
firmness, courage, and authority, that the blustering cravens 
slunk back like dogs who hear the angry voice of their 
master. A silence fell upon the police and upon the two cre- 
ditors, profound as death for a second. Then the gendarmes 
drawing the two men aside, there was a muttered conversa- 
tion of a few minutes, the only words of which that reached 
the ears of Margaret being Schneider's hoarse whisper — 

" But if she set off in the night, where are we then, pray 
you?" and Lamm's echo in a higher key, " where are we 
then, pray you ?" 



82 MABQAKET YON EHBENBERG. 

" Madam," spoke the gendarme after a few moments, 
still holding in his hand the warrant — " if you faithfully 
promise to settle the debt owing to these honourable gentle- 
men within the space of three days from this time, the 
honourable gentlemen have agreed to spare the gracious lady 
the painful necessity of accompanying us to the prison. But 
the gracious lady must henceforth consider herself a 
prisoner in her own house ; to assure which the honourable 
gentlemen will have me as guardian of their debtor — the 
gracious lady " 

" But if the Lady Baroness does not pay us!" muttered 
Schneider, clenching his fist as he and Lamm retired, " let 
Madame prepare for prison straw and prison fare ; for by 
she shall pack off there !" 

In a few minutes the sound of the retiring wheels of the 
prison- van were heard, and Margaret stared around her as 
if woke out of some astounding dream. 

And, probably, merely an astounding dream would Mar- 
garet have considered the whole affair, had not there been 
the tall gendarme still left standing in the middle of her 
little studio, as a voucher of the unpleasant reality of all that 
had just passed. 

Barbette, too, was still there ; and now she stiffened her- 
self up from her limp hanging across the chair-back, and 
burst out into a passionate lament upon the ill luck that had 
befallen her " in being with a gracious lady who could not 
pay her debts, and was like to be whipped off to a nasty 
damp prison. And her ivages--her wages — oh, but the 
Blessed Virgin, she must, she must have her wages ! Let 
the gracious lady remember the poor servant's wages ! But, 
yes, heaven be praised ! there was law for the poor servant 
in Germany, there was a police, — thanks be to the Blessed 
Virgin!" And tossing her head whilst she wrung her 
hands, Barbette flounced out of the room, and flung herself 
crying upon her bed in her own comfortable little chamber. 

Margaret neither heard the words nor saw the toss of the 
head. She v/as glancing over, with bitter astonishment, the 
bill of Lamm, " Gentleman and Lady's Glove Maker," Resi- 
denz-Gasse. There were white kid gloves, straw ditto, 
lavender ditto, black ditto, blue satin stocks, black satin 
ditto, white satin ditto, to an amount so astounding that 



THE ABTIST-WIFE. 



83 



Margaret believed herself certainly gone mad. And the 
dates, too ! — they extended from the day before the "Baron's 
departure, when he appeared plentifully to have supplied 
himself, back to the time of their marriage. Good heavens ! 
why, here was the identical white satin stock in which he 
was married, and doubtless there were his wedding gloves 
also ! Margaret fairly gasped with horror. " Oh, Conrad, 
Conrad, what miserable madness !" murmured she, forgetful 
of the presence of the man in green ; but he could not, as 
it happened, have understood her words, as they were uttered 
in English. 

" The gracious lady will pardon me ? She will give me 
her parole d'honneur not to escape ;" said he, smiling, and 
yet with a sort of sympathy in his manner that touched 
Margaret. " I will no longer intrude ; I will smoke my pipe 
in the kitchen ;" and, bowing with the air of a general, the 
gendarme retired. 

But Margaret recalled Barbette's extraordinary humour ; 
and feeling, strange as it may appear, that in the guise of a 
jailer this man really was a friend to her, she followed him, and 
not only with kind words, but even by setting before him meat 
and wine with her own baronial hands, she made him welcome 
in her house. She did not wish him to have much com- 
munication with Barbette, so she insisted on his taking up 
his quarters in the sitting-room adjoining her studio. There 
she arranged the sofa for him, and gave him books to read ; 
she would even herself have lighted the fire in the stove, — 
for it was a bitterly cold night, — but this the gendarme 
prevented with such politeness and delicacy of manner that 
Margaret felt the tears start to her eyes. The man would 
not sit down in Margaret's presence, but, standing with his 
head bowed, as she was about to wish him " good night," 
respectfully addressed her in the following words :— 

" The Baroness von Ehrenberg will not take it as a 
liberty if I were to offer a few words of advice ?" 

" I should be most happy to receive them, for I stand 
greatly in need of advice," said Margaret, with real emotion. 

" I do not think it is any betrayal of my trust if I recom- 
mend the Baroness von Ehrenberg to release herself, if 
possible, as speedily as possible, from the hands of Messrs. 
Schneider and Xleider, for they are men extremely unre- 



84 MAEaAEET YON EHEEKBEEG. 

lenting and severe. Has the lady Baroness no friends with 
whom she could consult ? Has she no means to raise ready 
money on the morrow ; as I believe, from what I have 
casually heard, that other creditors will on the morrow present 
themselves ?" He must confess, pursued the good man, 
with increasing earnestness, that the lady Baroness's po- 
sition was one of extreme perplexity, and if there were any 
means which could suggest themselves, — any friends with 
whom she could consult ? The lady Baroness's servant had 
shown herself so unfeeling, — had also, he understood, done 
a deal of mischief in the town by gossiping about the affairs 
of the lady Baroness, — might he propose something ? He 
had a little son, the trustiest little fellow under heaven ; he 
would send for him on the morrow, and any messages, any 
letter that the lady Baroness might want delivering, any 
little errands, in short, that the lad could do, he should do ; it 
would be better than sending the maid. The lady Baroness 
would, he hoped, pardon the liberty he had taken in thus 
freely speaking ; but he really was troubled to see such a 
kind lady in distress, and such a beautiful artist too ! — The 
lady Baroness would perhaps pardon him speaking so much, 
and about himself; but he had a great, a very great love of 
pictures, — painted a little himself, though but poorly of 
course, in his leisure ; and hoped some day his little Ernest, 
— that was his dear little son, — would be a real painter, if 
he only could get him into the Academy of Painting : — that 
was the ambition of them both. 

Margaret, greatly affected by the good gendarme's deli- 
cacy and politeness, and interested in the poor man and his 
little son, accepted his friendly offer. And, turning over in 
her mind her position, rendered now doubly embarrassing 
by this imprisonment within her oavu walls, she determined 
at the earliest opportunity next morning to send for Lud- 
milla and the Hofrath. 

Margaret, we can well imagine, passed the remainder of 
the night in anxious thought and scheming for the approach- 
ing troubles, and not in sleep. Soon after dawn she heard 
a clear child's voice in the adjoining room talking with her 
jailer. It was little Ernest, whom his father had contrived 
in some mysterious manner to summon, — how, it is needless 
to enquire, as every body knows German police in their 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 85 

movements are proverbially mysterious. However, when 
Margaret entered the room, there, seated on his father's 
knee, was a large, blue-eyed urchin, with flaxen curls parting 
luxuriantly upon a broad forehead. He was nine or ten 
years old, although he did sit on his father's knee ; and such 
a bright intelligent little Ernest he seemed, that it was no 
wonder his father was proud of him. The gendarme put 
him hastily down as Margaret entered, and rose up, but not 
before Margaret had observed that little Ernest had been 
showing his father a childish drawing, in which glowing 
yellow and red warriors formed the chief subject of interest. 
To little Ernest were confided by his father Margaret's 
letters, with many injunctions as to which must be posted 
(among these, by the by, was the letter about Xavier's pic- 
tures), and which must be delivered by Ernest himself. The 
lad buttoned them up in a little leathern pouch which was 
slung around him, and marched off with a gravity and im- 
portance worthy of a diplomatic envoy. 

It was not long, we may imagine, before the affectionate 
Ludmilla and her kind but somewhat muddle-headed father 
were with Margaret. The summons, though worded in the 
least alarming manner, had of course greatly surprised 
them ; and when upon arriving they saw a gendarme 
gravely pacing the ante-room, and had the door all but flung 
in their faces by Barbette, who, with her eyes and nose 
swollen with crying, bounced back into her kitchen mur- 
muring mysterious words ; and, above all, when they per- 
ceived poor Margaret seated before a table covered with 
papers, — and she looked at them with a countenance so pale 
and haggard, and with eyes so sunken and wild, that she 
might have been one just passed through the crisis of a 
terrible fever, — the good father and daughter stood for a 
moment transfixed with alarm and miserable foreboding. 

In a few concise and rapid words Margaret acquainted 
her friends with the dreadful position in which she found 
herself; shielding her husband, when she did mention him, 
however, in a marvenous manner. She also told them her 
plans for emancipating herself in brief words, and besought 
their advice and friendly aid. 

As for the old Hofrath, lie was almost speechless with in- 
dignation, both against the fascinating Baron and Schneider 



86 MAEGARET VOX EHREFEERG. 

and Kleider ; and when his words did come forth, they 
threatened to be so uncompromisingly vindictive, especially 
against the first-named individual, that Ludmilla had to give 
his arm a most merciless and unexpected squeeze, perceiving, 
as she did, an ashy paleness creeping over Margaret's 
quivering lips ; and the old gentleman's hurricane terminated 
in a violent blowing of his nose, a wiping of his spectacles, 
and a vigorous shaking of Margaret's cold hand. 

" My dear, dear, child ! my poor, dear child !" said he, with 
both his hands still shaking and squeezing Margaret's as 
though he would crush the very bones ; "a bad, nasty, nasty 
business ; but we must, we will set it right as far as the 

money goes. As to your husb ; but I shall never forgive 

myself Mere. Ludmilla, we must, we will get things all right." 
And the old Hofrath with trembling hands readjusted his 
spectacles, and set himself down with mighty energy to look 
over the papers which Margaret laid before him. He was, 
we have already said, reckoned extremely muddle-headed 
about business and money accounts ; but his affection and 
indignation on this occasion seemed to develope unexampled 
acuteness in him ; and with Ludmilla' s and Margaret's 
assistance he soon mastered the whole affair in a truly mar- 
vellous manner. 

They held, as you may imagine, a regular conclave, and 
it was determined that money must immediately be raised 
sufficient to stop the proceedings of the vindictive Schneider, 
Kleider, and little Lamm. Other creditors might appear, 
" but sufficient for the hour was the evil thereof." Another 
thing the good Hofrath undertook, and this was seeing the 
landlord of the house, with whom Margaret had foreseen 
disagreeables, as probably he would forbid a sale taking 
place of the furniture until his rent was paid, which rent, in 
fact, only could be paid by poor Margaret from the money 
which the furniture would bring. 

Ludmilla insisted upon Margaret's reposing herself for 
an hour or two after her dreadful night ; and in order to 
insure her sleeping, which Margaret declared was utterly 
impossible, Ludmilla administered a few wondrous homoeo- 
pathic globules, which she declared never failed in their 
marvellously soporific effect, and which she carefully took 
from a little homoeopathic medicine-chest always carried 



THE AETIST-W1FE. 87 

about by her. Ludmilla had a vast deal of the occult in 
her nature ; she administered the magic medicine with an 
air truly worthy of an enchantress ; and Margaret, soothed 
it might be by the presence of her friends, and by a growing 
hope of security, as well as by the potent medicine, laid her 
throbbing head upon her pillow, which her beloved Ludmilla 
shaded from the sunshine now streaming in through the 
windows. 

" I will be as jealous a guardian of you, dear Margaret," 
said her friend, kissing her eyelids, " as even the good 
gendarme outside. Keep calm ; I will permit no one to 
disturb you, whatever fierce lions or lambs in wolves' cloth- 
ing they may be." 

And Margaret slept a deep death-like sleep, which not 
even the quick impatient ring of the little Hofrath could 
disturb, as, full of bustle and satisfaction, he came to an* 
nounce that he had been with the landlord, " and really 
found him quite a reasonable man — quite. As their dear 
unhappy young friend had said, there was nothing in this 
world like straight-forward dealings with people. People 
could not distrust you if you candidly, honestly, approached 
them. Yes, yes ; heaven be praised ! all would be arranged 
in that quarter. And now, whilst their dear young friend 

slept, he would go and see and about disposing of 

her pictures, poor young thing ! poor clever young thing ! 
He wished he'd somebody under his thumb, he did ; but never 
mind, never mind ! And she had said he might dispose of 
those two drawings of the ' Hurricane of Life ' — poor thing ! 
poor thing ! she's in the hurricane just now. But, Lud- 
milla, we'll surprise her when I return," pursued the good 
little man, with a mysterious benevolent nod to his daughter, 
who had stood with her finger upon her lips at Margaret's 
door, beseeching silence — "we'll surprise the dear, sweet 
lamb !" And carrying off the two designs, which he alreadv, 
before going to the landlord's, had placed in a portfolio, he 
vanished with the brisk step of a youth. 

"When the good old gentleman returned, which was 
towards evening, Margaret was risen after a most refreshing 
sleep, over which Ludmilla had watched like a true guar- 
dian angel as she was. There had been a host of small 
creditors with their bills, all of whom Ludmilla had seen ; 



88 MARGARET YON EHREtfBERG. 

and, speaking with her firm and gentle manner, had assured 
them that the Baroness von Ehrenberg would, in the course 
of a few days, settle these accounts as soon as she had 
arranged her affairs, which she, assisted by the Hofrath 
Rosenthal, was now doing. It was wonderful the effect of 
Ludmilla's manner upon these people, seconded as it was 
by the name of the Hofrath, who, although having the cha- 
racter among his immediate friends of a "muddlehead" in 
business, and although he had not the repute of being rich, 
nevertheless stood very high in Munich for probity and 
honour. Ludmilla had also taken upon herself another 
piece of business, and this was discharging Barbette, and 
paying her her wages, there and then, out of her own private 
funds, which she had stolen a half-hour during Margaret's 
deep sleep to fetch from home ; at the same time desiring a 
certain poor needlewoman of her acquaintance to come to 
Margaret's home that evening as temporary servant. 

Barbette, as soon as she had received the " blessed bank- 
notes" for her wages, fell into ecstasies of devotion to her 
adored mistress, with whom " she desired to live and die. 
Oh, why ! oh, why would the Frau Doctorin so cruelly tear 
her away from her adored, her divine mistress ! Oh ! she 
would die at her adored mistress's feet!" — and she made a 
violent attempt to burst into Margaret's chamber, to sob 
and tear her hair and wring her hands upon her mistress's 
bed. But Ludmilla cut all very short by shutting the door 
upon her face ; whereupon Barbette, in great dudgeon, 
packed up her traps, and departed to gossip through the 
town with tenfold violence, and to pour into the ears of the 
Frau Majorin' s cook, tales to the fascinating Baron's, and 
to the artist Baroness's, and to the fair Ludmilla's discredit, 
which were enough to have made their hair stand on end 
with horror could they only have heard them, and which 
were, of course, duly repeated immediately afterwards to the 
Frau Majorin by her cook ; and, alas that it should be so ! 
these tales found in the Frau Majorin' s empty mind a cor- 
ner where they took root, and budded and blossomed and 
produced such poisonous fruit, that the good Ludmilla and 
poor unhappy Margaret were greatly surprised and no little 
pained henceforth, when meeting the good lady Majorin 
upon the common stair-case of the house, or, later on in our 




fe^ -3^ta/// 



'tiw/ 



THE AKTIST-WIFE. 89 

story, in the street, to find themselves " cut dead" by Mar- 
garet's formerly fussy neighbour. Yes, the time had been 
when the Frau Majorin had everlastingly been sending 
up messages to " her dear Baroness" — had everlastingly 
been bursting in upon Margaret's quiet studio with such 
weariful tittle-tattle and bustle, and yet really with such 
apparent kindness of heart, and such actual hand and foot 
service, that our heroine had been distracted with contend- 
ing sentiments regarding her neighbour. In several in- 
stances, really, she had received such acts of ar rough 
physical kindness, such as the sending up of a delicate dish 
of the Frau Majorin 's own making for the fascinating Baron's 
supper ; or, the Frau Majorin 's compliments, and if the 
Frau Baronin had any little commissions in the town, the 
FrauMajorin was going out shopping, and would be delighted 
to execute them for the Frau Baronin ; or, it might be a 
beautiful present for the Christmas tree, or for a name or 
birth-day. In short, so many of these neighbourly offices 
had passed from the Frau Majorin to Margaret, and been 
received by her, that Margaret had persuaded herself that 
her neighbour "was a real good soul, though common-place;" 
and, in order to relieve herself of a sense of uncomfortable 
obligation, had painted her portrait and made her a present 
of it in a handsome frame. And this said portrait now hung 
upon the drawing-room wall, just below the ceiling where, 
throughout the day we are writing about, was heard by the 
curious prying ears of the Frau Majorin the tramp, tramp, 
of the good gendarme, as he paced to and fro. 

Tes, portrait and all were forgotten ! — washed out by the 
great scandal going on. The Frau Majorin that afternoon, 
at a coffee-party, related all she knew about it — and a con- 
siderable deal more also — to a group of her gossip-loving 
friends, among whom was a friend of our old acquaintance 
" the near-sighted court-lady ;" and these two worthy dames 
became flint and steel to each other, and such sparks of 
indignation and virtue did they strike forth between them, 
that it was enough certainly to set all the female population 
of the honourable and virtuous city of Munich in a blaze ; — 
and after burning up thus publicly the characters of Mar- 
garet and Ludmilla, — strange to say, the fascinating Baron's 
faults were lightly passed over by his female judges ! How 



90 MAKOABET VON EHBENBERG. 

was it possible that the Frau Majorin, in her calm dignity 
and with unspotted fame, could possibly do less than bear 
her testimony against " dishonest conduct, and light beha- 
viour, and indecorous studies !" for poor Margaret's study 
of anatomy, and her anatomical figure, and her drawing from 
the life, had been brought forth against her as heinous 
crimes ; so when the Frau Majorin met " these evil women" 
upon the stairs or in the street henceforth, she cut them 
dead as stones ! Oh, virtuous and gentle Frau Majorin ! 
with your sweet beseeching glance in your pictured eyes, 
how could you do otherwise ? Tour very nurse-maid, and 
cook, aad footman, caught the infection of virtue, and cut 
the two evil ones dead also. And you, little curly-headed 
Lily, how could you be so degenerate as to rush towards 
Margaret, after her wickedness, and bury your face lovingly 
in her hands, holding it then up laughingly to be kissed ? 
You remembered many a kind word and dainty bunch of 
grapes, or delicate biscuit, degenerate child! Bat your 
mother, with a hasty cuff, taught you your lesson, and trained 
you up in the way she would have you go ! 

Alas ! among the many wounds which her misfortune 
struck into our heroine's heart, where many a spiritual 
sword buried its point, as seen in the pictured Mater Dolo- 
rosa' s, the wound from the sword of woman's unkindness 
was not wanting — that bitter sword of sister's hard-hear ted- 
ness to sister ; for a woman's tongue, when dissecting a 
woman's character, can become sharper than steel, harder 
than adamant ; the milk of love can turn into poisonous 
gall, the honey of smiles into the mildew of inuendo. The 
tiger is fierce, the hyena is relentless ; but neither so re- 
lentless nor fierce as a silly, ignorant, idle, gossiping woman, 
when once she attacks, tooth and nail, the character of a 
sister in anywise fallen beneath the censure, whether just 
or unjust, of the world. But, thank Grod ! if there are Frau 
Majorins in the world, there are also Ludmillas and Mar- 
garets. 

But we are rather anticipating. Let us return to our 
good Hofrath as he enters Margaret's studio, smiling like a 
May-day, and, seizing Margaret's listlessc old hand, presses 
it with tenderness to his withered lips. 



CHAPTES X. 



KATKBOWS, 



* My dear cliild, my poor dear child ! his Majesty, Gi-od bless 
him ! has purchased your sketches of the ' Hurricane of 
Life ;' he is delighted to possess them. They are now in the 
palace ! Here is a lovely little roll of bank-bills, and — what 
at another time you would, I know, prize above any money — 
a few lines traced by the Poet-King, expressing his admira- 
tion of your sketches, and a desire that you should design 
him a set of six drawings similar to the Hurricane, but from 
any subject most congenial to your taste !" 

A faintness of joy, such as Margaret had fancied never 
again could quicken her soul, rushed over her ; her limbs 
failed her, and, sinking back into her chair, she burst into a 
flood of tears, which rolled over her cheeks in torrents, as 
she lay, white and cold as marble, upon the cushions. The 
Hofrath and Ludmilla wept with her. Then there were 
words of deepest gratitude both to G-od and man, and heart 
to heart embraces of the three friends. Ludmilla covered 
the old gentleman's brow with kisses, and then folded her 
beloved Margaret in her loving arms. — " And — and — ?' ' 
asked Ludmilla after the first effusion of joy was over, " what 
of them ? have they agreed to take any of Margaret's 
pictures ?" 

" Tes, I have made satisfactory arrangements with them ; 
and they would also employ our dear young friend, if she 
find the time sufficient for it, in making a copy of the Era 
Angelico and the little St. Michael of Raphael in the Pinak- 
othek for a connoisseur from Yienna. So there is plenty of 
work in store for our dear, indefatigable, noble-spirited friend 
here ! G-od always helps those who will help themselves, you 
see, my dear daughters." 

Ludmilla now glided out of the room, leaving our heroine 
and critical friend in deep discourse about the present and 
the future. The needle-woman had not yet made her 



92 MAEGAEET YON EREENBEEG. 

appearance. Carl, the man, had been out, no one knew 
where, all day : " he must have his discharge, now that some 
money has come into the house," thought Ludmilla ; so 
Ludmilla prepared the tea, and brought it in herself; and 
most strangely delightful was the contrast presented between 
this cozy evening, when Margaret, her breast filled with 
gratitude, sat between her friends at a warm tea-table, and 
the night before, when she had wandered frantically across 
the snowy plain, and later on had been all but dragged to 
prison. 

The good gendarme, we may be sure, was not forgotten. 
Ludmilla and the Hofrath were delighted by what Mar- 
garet had told them about him, and he seemed scarcely less 
delighted to see " the kind lady and clever artist" in a fair 
way to escape the clutches of hard creditors. His little 
Ernest had been again, in the course of the day, to see if he 
could be of any service ; and Ludmilla, at Margaret's desire, 
had given him a variety of coloured chalks and some drawing- 
paper, which were gifts scarcely to be believed in by the 
child ; he had stared with the biggest of round eyes, and then 
darted off with his prizes, scarcely even staying to return 
thanks. This evening he had returned with a sheet full of 
more wonderful red and yellow warriors than ever, which 
were exhibited now at the tea-table to the critics of art, the 
Hofrath and Margaret. The father blushed a delightful rose 
up from the roots of his black moustache to the roots of his 
black .hair, as they commended the efforts of his boy, and 
prophesied in him a second battle-painter, Hess. The little 
lad, however, was far too busy with creating fresh warriors, as 
he sat upon the floor, at his father's feet, to hear their praise. 

About an hour afterwards, the good gendarme being re- 
lieved from his post, volunteered to seek out the abode of 
the still absent needle-woman, and dispatch her to the 
Baroness's. There was, it seemed, nothing that the father 
and little son were not ready to do for her. 

" I wish this Pfau, the needle-woman, would come," said 
Ludmilla : " perhaps she has bought another set of the four 
seasons, and having beautified her littleroom there with is again 
enamoured of it, and remains sitting in silent admiration 
before her pictures, instead of going out to her work ! This 
really happened once in my experience of poor Pfau, dear 
Margaret ! She is a vast lover of the arts, poor thing, and 



THE ABTIST-WIPE. 93 

nothing could induce her for a whole week to leave home 
after she bought her four grand gaudy prints. ' JNo, no/ 
said she, ' I've got a bit of beauty in my room ; I can't go 
out — and I'll do no nasty, boring mending : I'll e'en be as the 
angels in heaven are, and do no work ! And oh ! bless the 
Lord God ! in heaven there'll be no stockings and drawers 
to darn and patch — so I like the idea of heaven mightily !' 
To fully appreciate poor old Pfau's anticipations of heaven, 
dear Margaret, you must know that darning students' stock- 
ings, and patching their drawers, is poor Pfau's chief occupa- 
tion and bread-winner upon this prosaic cold earth, where, 
even should there be such things as angels, they must needs 
wear stockings and drawers ! But here is our poor old 
Pfau in reality," cried Ludmilla, running to open the door, 
as a ring was heard. And poor old Pfau it was, who 
accompanied Ludmilla back into the room, curtseying and 
looking very bewildered and half crazy, but very harm- 
less. 

Ludmilla agreed to take up her abode that night with 
Margaret, in order to keep her spirits from flagging, of which, 
however, at the moment, there seemed little fear, for Mar- 
garet's tears had changed into smiles ; smiles, though 
chastened by many a sick pang in her soul, yet still smiles 
like warm sunshine were lying upon her countenance. 

But we must hasten over a portion of our heroine's 
troubles, merely touching hastily upon one or two points. 

The following day a fiacre drove hastily up to the house, 
and a handsome, dark-complexioned young man sprang up 
the stairs to Margaret's door. There he might have been 
seen to pause for a second, press his hand convulsively upon 
his heart, run his fingers wildly through his hair ; and, with 
a singular quivering of the muscles passing over his 
handsome features, he, with a sudden jerk, pulled the handle 
of the bell. 

It was Xavier, who had received Margaret's letter about 
his paintings ; a letter which only confirmed various un- 
pleasant conjectures which for months had been torturing 
him, and which strangely coincided with the distressing 
news which had been hinted upon his arrival in Munich by 
various acquaintance that very morning, of whom he had 
enquired about Baron von Ehrenberg. 



91 MAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

Margaret was alone, standing in the midst of a great 
confusion dusting the two old paintings in question, pre- 
paratory to packing them up, when Xavier entered the room. 
Again the convulsive twitching passed across his countenance 
as his eyes fell upon Margaret and the pictures ; and his voice 
failed him, so violently did his heart throb. 

" Oh, I am glad, Mr. Xavier," said Margaret, politely but 
coldly turning and addressing the young man, " that you 
have come to fetch your curious pictures, — I had no con- 
ception for months to whom they belonged, — and it was only 
in the midst of the confusion we are in now that I dis- 
covered, luckily, your name at the back. I feared at one time 
that they might, in spite of any remonstrance from me, have 
been seized upon and sold ; so I am glad you have come for 
them." 

Xavier returned no answer at all, but stood there with 
his hat held in both hands before him, and his eyes rivetted 
with a most intent and mournful expression upon Margaret. 
" She is unconscious — quite, quite unconscious : It is as I 
believed, as I feared !" murmured he to himself : " the miser- 
able scoundrel, the hardened wretch ! But this innocent, 
honourable being shall no longer be deceived — why should 
she be deceived and preyed upon by a human vampire ?" And 
his gaze became fiery, and a dark anger lightened from his 
eyes, at the same time that a mournfulness about the mouth 
mingled strangely with the indignation of his eyes. This 
gaze was so odd and unaccountable to Margaret, that, 
much to her annoyance, she felt a burning flush suddenly 
overspread her neck and brow. 

" Sir, these are your pictures, I suppose ? If so, will 
you kindly see about their immediate removal?" And with a 
certain hauteur she pushed them towards Xavier. 

" My gracious lady," at last burst from his lips, " my 
dear lady — how shall I explain to you — how open your eyes 
to the vilest deceit which has been practised upon you ? My 
anger almost overpowers me — prevents my proper use of 
terms — makes me break through all ordinary rules of 
politeness. But I perceive in all this, but one more base 
deceit — one more cowardly trading upon a sweetness, a 
generous confidence." 

" Oh stop ! recall these words — every word, every accent 
of reproach, I beseech ! — I command you !" cried Margaret, 



THE ARTIST- WIPE. 95 

quivering with horrible anticipation, and at first moving 
towards Xavier with a face of anguish from which the bright 
flush had suddenly vanished and left white as ashes : then 
she sank upon the sofa like one smitten down by a fierce 
hand. 

Xavier paced the room with hasty steps, his head sunk 
upon his breast, his hands clenched by his sides, and his 
flashing eyes restlessly turning towards Margaret, as she sat, 
trembling like an aspen-leaf, upon the sofa ; and, whenever 
his eyes fell upon her, the mournfulness mingled again in 
strange discordance with the anger : and so he paced the 
room for several minutes in silence ; and in silence she sat 
upon the sofa. 

" Mr. Xavier," at length hoarsely spoke Margaret's voice, 
the tones coming up from the depths of her very being, 
where many a string of that tender and mystical instrument, 
the heart, had been jarred and snapped, " I feel that one 
who has ever spoken of you as his friend has in some strange 
way, to me unknown, done you wrong : the pictures are 
connected with this wrong, perhaps — perhaps I also : let 
me hear truly how this affair stands : let no anger, no hasty 
short-sighted anger, blind you : if I can do aught to make all 
right, it shall be done. I desire, God in heaven knows !" — 
and here Margaret's eyes gleamed with the light of earnest 
prayer, as they glanced upwards, — " solely to know the truth, 
and then strongly to act the way that God's voice directs 
within my soul. Speak all ; but, oh, my Father, do Thou let 
him speak in mildness — let me hear in charity !" 

And Xavier, standing with his eyes fixed upon her now 
calm countenance, severe almost in its coldness, like one 
acting by the command of a magician, dispassionately stated 
the bare facts of the transaction regarding the copying of 
these pictures. He simply said that various other money 
transactions had passed between him and the Baron, but he 
entered into no detail, gave way to no invective ; the severe 
mood of calm justice seemed to have passed even from Mar- 
garet to him : or, rather, he seemed converted into a mirror, 
ready to reflect every phase of feeling of her, who, uncon- 
sciously to himself, was becoming each moment the genius 
of his fate. 

" I need not to see that paper," said Margaret's hoarse 



% MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

voice, as Xavier unfolded a memorandum in the Baron's 
well-known hand- writing ; and she closed her eyes suddenly 
and shrank involuntarily together. " I shall copy the 
pictures, of course — it is a point of honour : say no more, 
Mr. Xavier — I should be uneasy any other way : take 
charge of them for a few days : grant me a few months' 
time : all shall be done, — yes, yes ! I feel deeply, deeply, 
your kindness, but I must and will do this. As to the 
other obligations, alas ! I know not what to say : I stand 
like one before whom the earth has suddenly opened 
into a yawning chasm. Oh, Mr. Xavier ! both you and I, 
through blind, mistaken affection, have done wrong by him. 
It was made so easy, through our mistaken kindness, for 
him to fall ! We must suffer through our blindness, and he 
also ! Had we not indulged his weakness, each in our own 
peculiar way, he might have had the strength to exert him- 
self. G-od alone can judge m such sad cases as these !" and 
Margaret rose, and, with hands pressed upon her brow, 
slowly paced the room. 

Xavier could have flung himself at Margaret's feet, and 
vowed himself her devoted slave in life or death ; but he 
would as soon have really thought of doing this, as of reveal- 
ing to so pure a soul as hers all the weaknesses and pecca- 
dilloes of his somewhat reckless life. But although he felt 
intense indignation against the Baron, both for Margaret's 
and his own private wrongs and losses, and although his soul 
was steeped with a tender sympathy for Margaret — the 
queen of his idolatry — still, such a queer medley are human 
beings, both of good and bad, that his prevailing feeling 
during the latter part of his interview was intense joy in the 
absence of the Baron, and in the prospect he saw opening 
before him of frequent intercourse with this interesting 
woman, and in the power of materially assisting her through 
her troubles and difficulties. 

Xavier, after the first surprise and pain of this unpleasant 
disclosure relative to the pictures, entered so earnestly into 
the consideration of Margaret's affairs, which, by intuition 
almost, he seemed acquainted with ; suggested such useful 
things to be done ; volunteered to see various creditors, in 
company with Hofrath Rosenthal ; commended her determi- 
nation of steady industry, and the stern following of duty, so 



THE AETIST-WIFE. 97 

warmly, and all in such a delicate and grateful manner, that 
Margaret, before he left her, felt a belief arise in her mind 
that in him she should find a wise and eflicient friend. 

And so he proved himself to be. The Hofrath and 
Ludmilla were delighted with him, and praised him for his 
generosity and forbearance towards the fascinating Baron ; 
abusing the Baron, also, to tbeir heart's content, most 
thoroughly, behind poor Margaret's back. 



CHAPTER VII. 



A CONCLUSIVE LETTER AND A NEW BEGINNING. 

And now a month or more has passed since that terrible 
night when Schneider and Kleider had come with the prison- 
van to carry oft' our poor heroine. The storm had laid itself, 
thanks to various favourable circumstances ! but a mighty 
change has come over poor Margaret's external " surround- 
ings," as the Americans would say, as well as over her 
mental condition of some few, very few, months past. 

She is now, to all appearances, a deserted wife, — for since 
she has taken up her abode in her new home, which we will 
shortly describe, a letter had reached her from her husband 
— seemingly it had been delayed a fortnight or more, since 
it reached Munich — how, Margaret was at a loss to tell ; 
but we, who have the privilege of peeping, like a very Asmo- 
deus, into any home or human heart, however sacred or 
secret, if necessary for the elucidation of our story, know 
that immediately after Margaret had left her old home in 
the Eriihlings Strasse, this letter arrived for her. The post- 
man, finding the Baroness von Ehrenberg's home deserted, 
rang at the door of the Frau Majorin, to enquire the address 
of the Baroness von Ehrenberg ; but neither the Frau Majo- 
rin' s cook, nor the Frau Majorin' s nurse-maid, nor the Frau 
Majorin 's footman, nor yet the Frau Majorin herself, who 
was at last appealed to, chose to tell where the Baroness 
von Ehrenberg was to be found, nor yet would take charge 
of the letter : so it lay a whole fortnight before its right- 
ful owner was discovered. Had the virtuous Frau Majorin 
only known this, it would have been a decided comfort to her ; 
because just at this time she was especially full of bitterness 
against poor Margaret. " Such a gallavanting as there had 
been day after day of that tall, black-eyed young man — a 
rich goldsmith from Augsburg, she'd heard say he was — up 
stairs and down, at all hours of the day, to my lady 
Baroness's ! Yes, yes ; it was plain enough to see the cause 
of that delightful man Baron von Ehrenberg leaving his 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 99 

wife : no wonder, no wonder !" And the good Frau Majorin 
and her friends held up their virtnons hands and shook 
their virtuous heads hj terrible amaze aod disgust, — 
especially the friend of the friend of the near-sighted Court 
lady. 

But let us see what the delightful Baron says of himself : 

" My beloved and ill-used Wife, — I plead no apology but 
my hapless fate for all the misery which I know must have 
overwhelmed you, — through me, alas ! brute that I am to 
continue to breathe after all that has occurred to you ! But 
I foresaw the evil impending — I confess it ! I confess that 
my courage failed me — and I fled ! Yes ; you I knew to be 
strong enough to bear any distress like a true heroine. For 
myself — oh, may I still dare to call you dear, dear Margaret 
— there was no hope, no power of action left ! I Jled I 
spurn the letter from you. Scorn ever again to breathe my 
worthless name ! I have been weak, wicked, but, oh, I am 
not ungrateful. Heaven above is my witness ! never, never 
shall I be ungrateful. I am going where, perhaps, never 
again will you hear from me. Seek not to know my fate. 
If good comes to me, you shall hear, — not unless. Long 
enough have I been a burden, poor Margaret, upon you. 
I dare not ask what you have done at Munich — all that you 
do will be well done. For myself, I have endured bitter 
misery of mind, and bitter want even of the common 
necessaries of life. I have been living, for the last several 
weeks, upon the money produced by certain silver articles 
which necessity obliged me to carry away with me. Oh ! 
the misery of one's fate reducing one to such paltry mean- 
ness. Oh, Heaven forgive me my unnumbered sins, and 
my bitter cruelty to you, Margaret ! 

" Tour unworthy, despairing-to-death Husband, 

"Conrad tois Ehrehberg." 

There was no date to the letter, but tnere was a Swiss 
post-mark upon it : otherwise, no trace as to the writer's 
whereabouts. It is very possible that Margaret might have 
discovered her husband through the police and through his 
passport. His creditors would have done so, assuredly, 
had not Margaret been on the spot to stop their mouths by 



100 HAEGA.EET YON EHEEFBEEG. 

her hard-earned money. But neither she nor they traced 
hini out, or even attempted so to do. The effect produced 
by the letter was certainly different, very different, from 
what the writer had intended, as, seated in a most com- 
fortable room in a most comfortable inn, the fascinating 
Baron had penned it, his diamond ring glittering upon his 
hand, his face anything but emaciated, his dress anything 
but bespeaking sordid poverty. The silver forks certainly 
had been converted into money ; but that was not all that 
he had had to subsist upon. He smiled instead of wept as 
he penned his distressing epistle. " That will touch her ! 
that will keep her heart tender towards me, when, at some 
future day, I fly again to the arms — and clever, industrious 
hands ! — of my dear Margaret ! She is a right good creature, 
and desperately fond of me, — and desperately fond of her 
painting, too ! She may just as well indulge the two passions 
at once, and make me the most blessed of men !" Grateful ! 
aye, that am I, sure enough — excellent, capital wife ! I'll 
prove that some day, when I return to the sweets of home 
and to a hard-working wife !" 

So soliloquised our heroine's husband ; and then, sealing 
his epistle, sauntered forth to post it on his way to a fashion- 
able promenade, where he would be the admired of all 
beholders. 

Margaret had just finished arranging her little studio in 
her new home when the letter arrived. It was a small 
room, very lofty, with one tall and wide window to the 
north. The walls were painted of a dull red ; but this failed 
to give a warm character someway to the room. The window 
looked down over a number of untidy suburban gardens, 
where many a white and green summer-house, and many an 
unmown grass-plot, graced the scene. But above the im- 
mediate and commonplace foreground stretched the glorious 
chain of Alps, now in the evening sunlight melting 
into the opal sky ; and around her window hung sprays 
of budding vine. These externally lovely Alps, and the vine, 
and a vast expanse of heaven, would be the beauty of Marga- 
ret's window. Near to it stood her well-used easel, her old 
friend. Her paint-box, her brush, and her palette, lay 
upon a low stool beside it. Two copies by Margaret from 
landscapes, made in the Dresden Gallery, and especial favour- 



THE AETIST-WirE. 101 

rites of hers, hung upon the wall opposite the window. 
These pictures, together with a lovely bouquet of Alpine early 
spring flowers, which were arranged in a quaint green bottle 
standing up on abracket between the pictures, had arrived this 
morning for Margaret ; sent, said the message delivered by a 
man to old Pfau, poor Margaret's regular attendant, " by an 
unknown friend." Margaret felt in a dream seeing these dear 
old friends returned, — they which the Hofrath had sold to 

and , the Munich picture-dealers ! — " It must be 

the Hofrath or Ludmilla who had repurchased them," she in- 
stantly imagined ; and touched to the very heart by their 
thoughtfulness, yet pained to imagine their spending money 
upon her when money could so ill be spared by either of them, 
she had gone forth instantly to thank them. But their sur- 
prise and delight at hearing of the pleasant return of the 
old favourites, and of the lovely flowers, were so genuine, and 
their denial of any knowledge of them so earnest, that Mar- 
garet had to puzzle her brain to discover the kind unknown 
friend in some other quarter. Strange that her thoughts 
should never have turned to poor Xavier, who, to calm his 
restless brain and heart, had made a visit to the mountains, 
and whilst gathering these delicate flowers had thought of 
the two lovely landscapes he had seen in Margaret's studio 
some months before, and determined that they, as well as 
the flowers, should cheer the beloved friend of his soul in her 
desolation. 

"Well, Margaret had been very busy all day arranging 
her working-room ; for, upon her return from the Hofrath' s, 
she found that her kind acquaintance the gendarme, being 
that day off duty, had brought in a truck all her artistic 
effects, which, during the great confusion of the sale in the 
Ertihlings Strasse, had been stored away at the gendarme's 
little house as at a place of safety. He and Ernest had 
constituted themselves guardians and humble servants of 
the " kind lady and clever artist." The father had begged 
as an especial favour that he might take charge of her easel 
and artistic goods and chattels, he had " such a respect for 
them." Little Ernest had besought permission, when she 
was again settled to work, to come to her between school- 
hours for a little time, and wash her brushes, clean up her 
palette, or do anything of that description ; he liked, he said, 



102 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

handling paint-brushes so much, — that is, that he might 
privately before cleaning them daub red and yellow warriors 
upon his own hands and her easel. Margaret accepted 
his services ; however, on condition that Ernest, each time 
that he came, should have a regular drawing lesson. And 
tlms a most extraordinary pleasant interchange of good 
offices commenced between the three. 

Ernest had accompanied his father with the truck, and 
all three had been as busy as bees arranging things to the 
best advantage and in the most comfortable manner. Very 
spare of furniture, certainly, the room was, and that furni- 
ture was of the commonest description; and as spare of 
furniture was Margaret's little bed-room adjoining ; but to 
Margaret that mattered nothing ; she was in a stern, severe 
mood of mind, — commencing a severe, stern struggle. 
The beauty of the painting-room must be that which would 
proceed out of her own soul, and must be created by her 
own hand. Her tools remained to her, — her few books, out 
of which she would drink draughts of strength and peace. 
A bitter past was behind her, — a laborious, anxious present 
was around her, — and a future ? She permitted herself to 
contemplate no future, — the present, the stern present, was 
all that must concern her. Work, work, work, her greatest 
friend ; her consolation, the absorbing necessity of the 
moment, which would deaden all the anguish of a yearning 
heart after love, and smarting from cruel injustice ! How 
often has the human soul to bless Grod for the curse pro- 
nounced upon man, " Thou shalt earn thy bread through 
the sweat of thy brow!" Eorth from the soul are crushed 
the rarest wine and the purest oil by the trampling foot of 
Necessity ! So mused our heroine, as, the good gendarme 
and little Ernest having taken their leave, she leant out 
of her window and watched the roseate light of evening 
fade away from the distant Alpine range till its jagged peaks 
became cold and grey against the twilight sky ; and, as she 
thus mused, her husband's touching epistle was put into her 
hands by old Pfau. 

" Ah, Conrad, that I could but believe the strange words 
of this letter, — that I could believe you miserable, ashamed, 
suffering ! — then would there be hope both for you and for 
me ! then would there be a future ! As it is, my faith fades 



THE AUTIST-WIFE. 103 

away from around your image as the evening light has 
faded away from the mountains yonder. Those mountains 
in very truth are cold and cruelly savage ; it was but the 
reflection of a warm loving sun upon you which made you 
so magically beautiful and dear to my eyes. Alas, as my 
loving faith fades, so cold and cruel does your image, O 
Conrad ! arise before me. Woe, both for you and for me, 
that there is shaken, fading faith !" — And with a cold, 
trembling hand, Margaret placed the letter within a small 
locked box upon her table, which contained a terrible heap 
of bills and other painful documents. 



CHAPTEE VIII. 

A HUEEICANE OP LIFE WHICH OTJE AETIST HAD NOT IMAGINED. 

It is now late autumn. Margaret has firmly adhered to her 
stern path of laborious duty. Picture after picture has been 
finished — copy after copy made — the designs for King 
Ludwig are all but completed, as are also all but completed 
the copies of Xavier's pictures. Debt after debt has been 
liquidated — Margaret begins to breathe freer. It has been 
a severe struggle — nights as well as days have often been de- 
voted to herwork, — the early mornings, the late long summer 
evenings, have still found her at her easel ! An extraordinary 
rapidity of hand has become her reward, as well as a certain dull 
peace of mind — a sort of frenzy of work has often beset her, 
so that sleeping, her dreams, rather delirium than com- 
mon dreams, have been busied incessantly with painting ; 
her brain has bewildered itself with tracing out folds and 
folds of drapery, which merged with insane perplexity into 
horribly long lists of figures, which she was vainly striving 
to reduce to order, and which yet were still folds of drapery as 
well as figures, and could only be reduced to order by paint- 
ing the folds exactly — oh, how painfully exactly ! Or it was 
foliage which her eye and hand strove to fix upon the canvas, at 
the same time that it was Conrad's arm she sought to grasp, 
and his eyes she sought to look into, with such tears of the 
soul bedewing her own hands ; yet it was only common dew, 
though tears at the same time, which sparkled upon the minute, 
intricate foliage : and then the foliage parted, and she saw a 
transfigured image ! — the image, conjured by her imagination 
and over-loving heart, of the fascinating Baron ! — the old, 
the beloved, the trusted, respected, admired husband ! And 
the figure was so beautiful and sad, and it spoke, saying, 
" This, this, Margaret, is the truth — this, this is my soul I" 
And her own soul stood beside the transfigured image, 
weeping bitter tears, and pressing the beloved head of the 
sorrowing spirit to her bosom ! And then she would wake 



THE ARTIST- WIFE. 105 

with a cry of anguish, and with unutterable longing thrilling 
Ijer every nerve of brain and heart after the transfigured 
image : and the red light of morning would be cast upon the 
ceiling, and the sparrows would be chirping outside her 
casement, and the early sounds of the industrious black- 
smith's hammer would strike familiarly upon her ear, and 
she would hastily rise and commence her painting in a 
hurried toilet, and with her hands trembling from the 
remembrances of her dream, and her eyelids heavy with sleep, 
and with tears shed in the dream. 

But such visions only belonged to the nights. By day she 
was calm, and absorbed in her occupation. The excitement of 
clearing away the difficulties around her was of a kind really 
congenial with her nature. The independence she enjoyed was 
really delicious to her ; the stern resolves within her rendered 
even many a privation almost agreeable. Thus Margaret 
might, at times, be called happy, as human life goes ! Tes, 
so long as she felt herself achieving her object, she was really 
happy : she would not acknowledge to herself a pain, however, 
that was, at times, gnawing at her heart with a deadly anguish, 
" It is only over-fatigue, this faint sickness that comes over 
me," she would say to herself; but she did not believe this : 
she knew it was a cry after the fascinating Baron. 

Month after month thus rolled on. Ludmilla, the Hof- 
rath, Xavier, and the gendarme and little Ernest, were her 
external world. Each, in their way, rendered her life more 
full of interest — each, daily, became more necessary and dear 
to her — each had proved to her, in bitter time of need, real 
devotion, real regard. Her heart was sick of mere words of 
kindness; it recognised actions of kindness as real angels' gifts. 
Of all the " nine days' wonder" caused by the Baron von 
Ehrenberg's disappearance, and the breaking up of their 
home, Margaret neither knew nor cared. Neither did she 
hear anything of all the scandal which Xavier' s constant 
visits to her studio occasioned. 

Ludmilla, however, did; though she despised all the 
gossip of the Frau Majorin and of the Court lady, and their 
compeers, and had she only heard of Xavier' s devotion from 
such, she would not have paid the slightest attention ; but 
she herself had become very uneasy about it. It required 
no such occult sense as Ludmilla possessed to have divined 



106 



MAEGA.EET TON EHEENBEEG. 



poor Xavier's secret, if you but once had witnessed him 
in the presence of Margaret : and Ludmilla had seen 
him for hours and hours hanging over her chair, as she 
painted, or had watched him as he read or sang to them, as 
he often did, in the evenings when she and Xavier looked 
in to cheer their solitary friend, and divert her mind 
from her absorbing work. Ludmilla knew, as all Munich, 
that Xavier had taken lodgings in a street near to 
Margaret's studio : the plea being, that he must be near 

Herr N , the celebrated artist, whom he had persuaded 

to furnish him with a series of exquisite designs for goblets 
and ewers in gold and silver, which he was anxious to have 
executed for his business, and the designs for which it was 
absolutely necessary for him to inspect almost daily. But 
the world of Munich began to whisper that the designs 
which brought the rich goldsmith from Augsburg to Munich 
were not designs for goblets and ewers, but designs upon a 
married lady's heart ! Ah, Baron von Ehrenberg ! where 
was your love, so often boasted of ? thus leaving your wife ex- 
posed, if not to a real danger, — thanks to her nobility of soul, 
and her true, though foolish love of you, — at least to the 
disgust and scorn of a gossiping city 1 

Ludmilla grew dreadfully uneasy. Once she had even 
ventured vaguely to hint at a possibility of Xavier's state of 
mind to Margaret ; but Margaret had sternly silenced her, 
and indignantly resented any such reflection upon "her 
tried, her noble-minded friend," as she called Xavier; and 
bitterly had she reproached Ludmilla with unworthy ima- 
ginings ; "as though," said Margaret, rising suddenly from 
her easel and confronting Ludmilla, with a flush of pain 
and surprise overspreading her brow, and with her eyes spark- 
ling from the intensity of her indignation, " as though you 
were not purer than the ordinary run of women, and more 
loyal to a deceased husband, than to imagine me capable 
of encouraging aught but the purest friendship in the 
heart of this man — as though love, in the ordinary under- 
standing of the word, would not be, both to Xavier and my- 
self, a bitter injury, an insult, a dishonour. Friendship I 
acknowledge — a pure friendship, such as may exist between 
man and woman, as well as between man and man, woman 
and woman — a friendship honourable to both, useful to 



THE AETIST-WTFE. 107 

both — a friendship where there is true purity of soul 
unutterably beneficial to both one and the other. ISTo, Lud- 
milla, I cannot do Xavier — who throughout these sad, 
painful affairs has acted towards me like a very brother — 
such pitiful injustice. It is really, dearest Ludmilla, quite 
unworthy of your free unprejudiced mind, such a supposition : 
it is unworthy of jour love of me. And oh !" said Margaret, 
with a heart-piercing accent — " alas ! alas ! Ludmilla, has 
not love been to me a very curse and snare ? "Where- 
fore, then, should I seek to excite it again, either in 
another or myself, were it evei. lawful in the sight of G-od 
and in the sight of my own soul, which this love, did it exist, 
never, never could be? ]N"o, never again, I conjure you, 
dearest, best Ludmilla," said the indignant deserted wife, 
kissing her friend as she took up her palette to continue her 
work, "pain me by so unworthy, so mean a supposition." 

Ludmilla was silenced, but not convinced. Margaret 
continued blinded by her own moral purity, and received 
poor Xavier' s devoted love with joy and gratitude as the 
tribute of friendship. But the day arrived when her eyes 
were to be opened, and another chasm would yawn beneath 
her feet. 

It was a mild, melancholy, autumnal day. She had, as we 
have said, begun to feel as though a time of conparative 
repose were arriving. Before fresh work was commenced 
she would take a sort of holiday, whilst the last calm sunny 
autumn days remained. Xavier was still in Munich — those 
designs for the golden goblets and ewers seemed as though 
they never would be completed, — and had proposed that they 
should take a walk together towards a certain pine wood, 
which lay some miles from the city, upon the plain — a wood 
which had long attracted Margaret, and through which, on 
many a wild March day, she had in imagination wandered, 
when the winds would be soughing and sighing amidst the 
solemn dark branches ; or, when summer was hot and glaring 
in the town, she had pictured the intense coolness and still- 
ness she should find in the pine grove, far out upon the plain ; 
she had smelt, in fancy, the odorous perfume from the ruddy 
column-like stems, which would rise around her in solemn 
dignity, were she only seated amongthem,beneath their shade, ' 
upor the dry mossy turf, strewn thickly with the sharp dead 



108 MAEGABET YON EHEEKBERG. 

pine leaves, till the ground seemed covered with a red-brown 
carpet. She had made several attempts to reach this grove, 
but never succeeded. Once she had lost her way attempt- 
ing it ; once had been overtaken by a thunderstorm ; anothor 
time her companions had grown faint-hearted at the distance, 
and adjourned to a garden in a village upon the way to 
drink coffee, instead of discovering the long-sought-for pine 
wood. 

It was reserved for Xavier and herself this afternoon to 
reach it. Their stroll was altogether delightful. Upon their 
road lay a little village, in the quaint churchyard of which 
a terrible battle had been fought upon a Christmas-day long 
years ago. The giant grave covering a hundred corpses of 
mortal foes fallen in this cruel skirmish, was pointed out in 
the churchyard by Xavier to Margaret. Dank grass and 
broken autumnal flowers covered it, gorgeously tinted 
autumn leaves strewed it ; and an old feeble peasant-woman 
in her costume, brilliant as the leaves of autumn, knelt 
before the grave, praying with trembling withered hands 
and silently moving lips for the souls of the dead beneath, 
whose mortal remains had long ago crumbled into dust 
together silently, peacefully to reappear again to human 
eyes united in the loving forms of grass and tender flowers. 
TJpon the church walls glowed the pictured apotheoses of 
the three heroes of the fight ; and the hoarse bell from the 
crazy belfry called the villagers to vespers. 

Xavier told Margaret the whole history — and very full of 
poetry it is — of this battle in the churchyard, and of the 
three heroes who fell in it, and who came from one of the 
loveliest spots among the Bavarian Alps. And once having 
touched upon the Alps, Xavier, who had an intense passion 
for these mountains, became eloquent upon a theme as dear 
to Margaret almost as to himself, and related to her many 
wild legends connected with the mountains, and described 
excursions winch he had made among them in search of rare 
Alpine plants : for Xavier, we ought to have told the reader, 
was a great botanist, and had often regretted in his secret 
heart the fate which had made him a rich goldsmith instead 
of a scientific man, however poor, so that his life might have 
been devoted to researches in natural history. 

And with such talk did they beguile their way, until they 



THE AKTIST-WIFE. 109 

suddenly found themselves standing within the pine wood. 
It might have fairly been an enchanted forest, so abruptly 
did they find themselves in its midst — so intensely silent 
was it — so wondrously beautiful and solemn ! The sun was 
about to set, and dull grey clouds, which all day had 
shrouded the sky, now parted, and down dropped the ma- 
jestic sun through a sea of gold, flushing the up-piled clouds 
with intensest violet, and flecking the heavens with vermilion 
cloudlets. The tall stems of the pine trees burnt in the 
sun's departing glory, as if they were golden columns of an 
enchanted palace ; the dry pine-leaf carpet was of gold ; the 
heavy dark foliage was dashed with fiery gold ; a hush as of 
death was upon all. Side by side the two friends watched 
this glorious sunset. 

Suddenly — was it a dream ? — Margaret felt herself pressed 
with a convulsive mad grasp to Xavier's heart, and a kiss 
from lips glowing as the red sinking sun burnt upon her 
brow ! A dizzy horror seized her, and she could have uttered 
a wild shriek, but that her throat was parched, and her lips 
seemed petrified. A mist overspread her eyes, and she 
knew not for a moment — to her it seemed ages — whether she 
were really awake, or this merely one of her strange delirious 
fancies. As she awoke to a sense of its dreadful reality, 
she saw, lying at her feet, the prostrate body of Xavier : his 
face, buried among the leaves, a fearful twitching alone 
betraying life in the white, clenched hands, which lay 
knotted above his head. 

"Xavier! Xavier!" cried Margaret, kneeling beside the 
miserable young man, " Oh, God, what has come to you ? — 
alas ! alas ! is it a horrible insanity that has beset you, my 
friend, my brother ? Arise ! let us forget all that has happened 
this last, few moments. It has never been ! It was but a 
miserable madness ! 

The unhappy man spoke not, however : he lay as one dead : 
the white hands only knotted themselves even tighter and 
tighter. 

Xavier ! speak, speak to me !" cried Margaret, with in- 
creasing anxiety ; and stretched forth her hands towards his 
to unfold them and assist him to rise ; but as her touch en- 
countered him his whole frame shrank together, and a deep 
low groan escaped his lips ! He seemed to wake as from a 



1 10 MARGAEET YON EHRENBEBG. 

swoon, and rose up slowly, and leaning against one of the 
ruddy stems of an old pine-tree, gazed upon Margaret's 
horror-stricken face with a countenance white as the whitest 
marble. His features seemed to have suddenly become thin 
and sharp, and transparent ; his eyes looked at her with 
the mournfulness of death in them, and his words were slow 
and clear, and yet with a dreary echo, as of a passing bell 
tolling the knell of a departing life's joy. 

" Margaret, the curse, the miserable bitter curse, has fallen 
upon me, which in wretched dreams I have so long foreseen, 
and against which, oh God ! how often have I prayed for 
help, how often ! I, who for long years had forgot my 
childhood's prayer of, Father, deliver us from evil, lead us 
not into temptation ! Margaret, my heart long knew that 
it loved you, worshipped you — that you were dearer to me, 
a thousand times, than life ! Tour image has for months and 
months risen up before me, shutting out the whole world, the 
whole universe, — shutting out all but God, who, through 
your dear image, as through a veil of glory, has shone down 
into my soul, and thoughts, resolves, desires for goodness, 
earnestness and truth in life, unknown until I knew you, 
Margaret, have sprung up and filled my spirit with a delicate 
perfume, with a freshness and a strength as of a second 
youth : I said so often in my heart, this love — alone calling 
forth goodness and purity — cannot be evil ! It can alone, 
spoke an inward voice, be evil should she ever know it ! — To 
serve, to watch over her, to lighten the anxieties of a miserable 
destiny — these sweet acts might, I believed, be permitted me 
as christian charities ! But this horrible bitter curse, fore- 
shadowed in many an evil dream, has fallen upon me. I have 
broken the charm, sacrificed my sense of honour, given you 
cause to hate, to fly from, to despise me ! Oh, God ! that it 
had been Thy will to make me one whose right it was, whose 
deepest life's joy it was, to tread the path of life with this 
beloved, this worshipped being, removing from beneath her 
dear feet the briars, the thorns, the sharp, cruel stones !" 
And the mournful face sank into his clasped hands and 
bowed itself, whilst the sun sank lower and lower down 
among the purple clouds. 

The sun's last beams seemed to strike upon Margaret's 
brow and golden hair, and surround her as with a halo of 



THE ABTIST-WIEE. Ill 

glory, while, stepping forth towards her friend, she withdrew 
his hands from before his face, and gazing with a sort of 
exalted triumph in her eyes, she said, — 

" My friend, my brother ! let us not be sad, or broken- 
hearted, or mistrusting of God ! This love, bitter, death- 
like misery, as it now seems to you, may be a means of 
ennobling, purifying, elevating ! Oh ! little, believe me, will 
it matter, in the end, whether the love be happy , or not. 
God sends such fervent love for other purposes than that of 
happiness, for the purpose of giving untold strength and 
nobility to the spirit, which often mey be obtained rather by 
renunciation and the passing through the waters of affliction, 
than by possession or by the sunshine of prosperity. Oh, my 
brother ! let this passion of the soul, awoke within you by 
an object upon which you may not lavish your beautiful 
devotion without committing a deadly sin, and perilling the 
corruption of that which itself is so pure, so sacred, — let this 
strong ardent passion become yet stronger, yet more ardent, 
by being turned into a wider sphere of action than the life 
of one weak woman ! The poet, the painter, the musician, 
the philanthropist, the man of science, each, be he but true 
to his own calling, burns with a love of the most pure, of the 
most ardent nature ! — In all of these, love is but a fuller 
development ; or rather, but another phase of that impulse 
of the soul which now is swaying you as the moon sways 
the ocean. 

" My friend," pursued Margaret, after a moment's pause, 
her e_yes losing their look of triumph and swimming with 
tender, compassionate tears, so sad, so stolid, so utterly un- 
responsive remained poor Xavier's face — so steeped in dumb 
self-contempt and sickness of the heart, as he leant with 
bowed head against the pine-tree, — " my friend, my brother, 
let our lips thank God that, through His blessed Word, your 
straight unclouded pathway from this fatal chasm is laid 
down. This is no dubious question. There is so clear, so 
straight a path before you, when once you have snapt the 
insidious delusive bonds which had bound your imagination 
around me. Let me place upon your breast armour where- 
with to fight against myself! You have the noblest strength, 
believe me : and, dear friend, believe me, also, a peace, a 



11 2 MABGAEET TON EHBENBERG. 

peace unutterable will be yours, once having conquered m 
this great temptation. God has permitted this fearful mad- 
ness to overwhelm you, in order that, ere it is too late, your 
nobler self may arise, and, with scourges of keen thongs, may 
drive forth the evil-doers from the temple of your heart ; 
and then will arise the angel of peace, with healing on his 
wings ! Believe me, oh ! believe me, Xavier, my words may 
find no echo in your poor heart now ; but" the echo will not 
be voiceless long. I would so gladly, so thankfully bind up 
your wounded soul, pour wine and balm into the wounds : 
but, alas, the balm, as yet, from my unhappy hands might 
become deadliest poison ! We must part, dear friend, but 
let me, in times to come, have reason to thank God for the 
greatness, for the deep nobility of your love, instead of it fill- 
ing my heart with miserable remorse for having caused you 
such bitter, such unprofitable pain, my poor friend !" Mar- 
garet ceased, and a silence as of death was upon the forest, 
only broken by the gentle rustle of the evening breeze among 
the pines. 

At length a miserable moan burst from Xavier' s lips, and 
looking up he found that Margaret was gone ! It seemed 
as though she had vanished out of the forest silently, as the 
sunlight had done : and the absence of that dear form left 
all around him doubly drear. He made no attempt to follow 
her through the wood : he felt that the most impenetrable 
barrier divided her from him for ever, — the awfulness of 
which never had overwhelmed his soul until now, when 
Margaret knew his secret — until he had heard her mild, calm 
words, and seen her clear, truthful eyes looking into his with 
an expression of celestial faith in the dispensations of God, 
and also in the nobility of his own nature. Never had he 
so loved her as in that burning, agonized hour — never had 
life, without her beloved presence, seemed so worthless, so 
bare — never had the " angel of peace with healing on his 
wings" seemed so far, far distant ! But Xavier felt a reve- 
rence for Margaret as of a very saint, and strove, with all 
the energy of his being, to regain the path leading him forth, 
as she would have him, from temptation. He wrestled all 
that livelong night with his tumultous heart, the pine- 
branches tossing wildly above his head, and a cold moon 



THE ABTIST-WIEE. 113 

riding calmly through a cloudy sky, ever and anon sheddiug 
pale gushes of brilliancy down through the dark, tossing 
branches. And often, man, in wrestling with his heart's 
voice, discovers in the morning that, like Jacob, it is with an 
angel he has wrestled. 

Had Margaret seen the chastened, tender expression about 
poor Xavier's mouth and upon his brow, as he sat in a little 
wayside inn next morning, upon a road leading to the 
mountains whither he was bending his sad steps, her spirit 
would have been more strangely troubled by thoughts of her 
unhappy friend than it even was, as she sat, with weary, 
sleepless eyes, and trembling hand, putting the last touches 
to the two copies of Xavier's pictures. 

Margaret would have left Munich immediately — instantly, 
could she only have dispensed with that embarrassing thing 
her passport, or instantly have put all her few affairs into 
order: but all that must be done should be done most 
rapidly : Ludmilla, even, must never know the reason of her 
sudden departure, — she would surmise, perhaps, but must 
rest satisfied, dear, true heart ! with a poor plea for her 
departure, — that Margaret had stringent reasons to return 
to England. 

Ludmilla and the JETofrath were thunderstruck with amaze, 
when Margaret, the evening of the day following the scene 
in the pine-wood, called upon them to announce her depar- 
ture for England the next day at noon. They were extra- 
ordinarily distressed, and as kind as Margaret had ever, in 
the hour of trial, found them; but realise Margaret's de- 
parture they could not ; — no, not even when they had seen 
Margaret borne swiftly away from before their eyes by the 
relentless power of steam, and had also seen all her small 
worldlypossessions consigned into the luggage-van directed — 

" Erau von Ehrenberg, 

" Passagier nach 

" England." 

It was only when Ludmilla stood solitary in the deserted 
abode which, but a few hours ago, had been the home of her 
beloved friend, amid the litter of papers, straw, ends of pack- 
thread, and the nameless chaos which ever fills a room after 

i 



114 MARGAEET YON EHRENBERGk 

a departure for a long journey — when she took possession of 
a list, in Margaret's beloved hand- writing, of a variety of 
little commissions which she had entrusted to her care, and 
saw the walls divested of all their familiar sketches and 
traces of her friend's hand, and when she glanced towards 
the window, and saw no longer the easel, the old paint-box, 
and palette — that she first felt that she was gone ! 



CHAPTER IX. 

A BAPID JOTTKNEY, AND AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER 

Our heroine, throughout her long journey, seemed Impelled 
by a restless demon to travel day and night, night and day, 
unceasingly. The more rapid the motion, the more it 
seemed to ease the misery within her. She sought to 
occupy her thoughts with all around her : now her eyes 
drankin the orange sun-set, which gleamed across the desolate 
moorland over which the train was gliding swiftly : a tall 
crucifix rises gauntly against the flood of orange-light, now 
deepening and deepening into vermilion : and the moorland, 
the crucifix, and distant trees turning into inky blackness. 
Now it is night : the carriage sways to and fro : she is all 
solitary, except for an old man at the further corner, whose 
monotonous snorings rise at intervals above the rattle of the 
carriages. Margaret's head sinks upon her breast — sleep 
visits at last her weary, fevered eyelids; but it is Xavier's 
voice that murmurs in her dream — it is the rush of pine- 
trees that is around her— it is a burning kiss that is im- 
printed upon her forehead : her eyes start open in wild 
amaze ; she seems still to hear his voice, so sad and broken : 
she feels her brow flushed with fevered blood, which burns 
and careers like fiery poison through her veins. The dark 
train rattles and sways, and sways and rattles, through the 
blackness of night, when the steam-whistle screeches madly 
through the echoing tunnel which they now enter. She 
could have wildly joined in its infernal scream : she felt a 
terrible something at her heart, which gnawed at times with 
a tooth so cruel that her very life surely must fall its prey. 
Tears in the darkness dropped and dropped from beneath 
the hot, swollen eyelids, and over the compressed lips. 
" Oh, Conrad, my husband ! that 1 could have laid my brow, 
where this burning spot eats into the very brain, upon thy 
heart— that its haunting miserable memory could vanish in 
the knowledge that thy heart contained a love deeper, 
stronger, purer than this sad love that has unfolded itself 



116 MAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

before me ! My soul feels a craving, like a very craving 
after life, for a love in thy heart, deep, earnest, boundless — 
such a love as I feel within my own soul. Oh, Conrad ! to 
save myself from utter misery this boundless love must tend 
itself all towards my art — my dear, dear art ! My words to 
that poor soul must become deeds of struggling life." 

But, if ever Margaret sank into a fevered sleep that night 
or any of the several following nights and days of her journey, 
it was Xavier's voice that murmured in her ears, Xavier's 
presence that filled her imagination, — now as himself, — now 
strange and bewildering in the guise of the fascinating 
Baron. 

In the dark early dawn, in the broad ligfyt of noon, 
Margaret busied herself with painful endeavours to arrange 
in her mind her plans for the future, for her life in London 
during the approaching winter ; and then, also, she strove 
to keep— oh, how contrary to her endeavours of these many 
months past ! — the image of the Baron in her thoughts. 
She called up the old picture of her husband as she had first 
believed him to be, — the leving, the devoted. She lived over 
many a past day and hour when he had appeared to her in 
his old, beloved form. How calm, how delicious, did she 
imagine her life then ! She also tried to conceive pictures, 
and lay out fresh quantities of work to be wrought out in 
days to come, — a most common amusement of hers ; but 
all seemed flat and weariful ; her mind had exhausted itself 
by those last vasmj months of intense labour and drudgery, 
or it is possible, also, that the powers of her imagination 
might have been so utterly absorbed by those strange events 
just passed, of a terrible reality, that no imaginative powers 
remained over for mere idealism. Truly did Margaret at 
this juncture experience how blessed her lot was in one 
respect above the ordinary lot of women, — she first perceived 
how terrible a curse her gifts of imagination would have 
been to her, as to many another of her sisters, but for 
a channel discovered for its free career under ordinary cir- 
cumstances, in her profession : now that unchecked this 
subtle power was turned upon her personal life it had become 
the veriest demon, besetting her with a thousand horrors, 
repeating, exaggerating words in its silent voice, mirror- 
ing looks and actions in its magic glass, and with a few 



THE AETIST-WTFE. 117 

touches completing, with marvellous rapidity, picture after 
picture of misery or joy, — till Margaret, spite of her earnest 
prayers after purity of soul, felt, with intensest horror, at 
times almost as though she had been branded with a mark 
of sin. 

And thus she pursued her journey : now swept across the 
country with the power of steam — now painfully jolting up 
hill and dale through dreary wastes, for weary, weary hours 
in the uncomfortable imprisonment of a German Stell-wagen, 
an omnibus of antediluvian quaintness — now sailing down 
the quiet green Neckar and the rushing Rhine — now speed- 
ing again by train among the pleasant pastoral scenes of 
Belgium, and her miserable thoughts broken in upon by the 
care of luggage, the anxieties about bills, the changing of 

Do D ' _ ' © O 

conveyance, and the importunity of porters ; — and now she 
is in Calais. 

Both on account of the smallness of her finances, and also 
because impelled by her own restless state of mind, she 
longed for rapid motion. She had travelled, as we have said, 
night and day, and arriving in Calais about twelve o'clock on 
the Saturday night, expected to find a packet starting im- 
mediately for England ; but, like many another traveller, 
much against her will she was detained the whole of the 
Sunday in that dirty little port, until the departure of the 
mail in the evening. 

Margaret, exhausted by her hurried journey, and the 
fearful excitement she had passed, slept an unbroken sleep 
for many hours, net; waking till the broad light of noon-day 
flooded her chamber. Then, much refreshed and singularly 
calmed in mind, she arose, and having breakfasted, strolled 
forth to amuse herself with sauntering about the little town, 
and observing the picturesque groups of girls and women in 
their snowy caps, heavy golden earrings, and rich orange, 
blue, green, and scarlet petticoats and jerkins, seated chatting 
upon the threshold of houses squalid and frightful in their 
commonplaceness as any houses in Bethnal Green or "White- 
chapel ; and, what struck Margaret's eye especially, coming 
from amid the quaint domestic architecture of Germany, 
houses of such a strikingly common English air. She had 
wandered out of the little town, having dived into various 
alleys and courts to delight her eyes with their gay pictu- 



118 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

resque groups, and was walking along the jetty drinking in 
the fresh sea-air, and, as she saw the calm blue expanse 
stretching out before her, began to feel her heart throb with 
a real pleasure, saying to herself, " Home, home, after all, 
lies across this expanse of water !" A sudden longing after 
England seized her, and she became more than ever impa- 
tient for the evening, when she should be fairly approaching 
the cliffs of Dover. 

The quays and jetty of Calais were thronged with gay 
people enjoying the bright Sunday afternoon, and Margaret 
was startled several times by hearing her own language 
spoken by groups of ladies and gentlemen who passed her 
as she stood solitarily leaning over the balustrades of the 
pier. 

Now an English voice — how could it be so familiar to 
her ? — said close to her ear, as two gentlemen sauntered by, 
" Well, Baron, I reckon yonder's our little steamer lying 
out by the jetty there, all right and tight, and a quick sailer, 
I hope, for your sake, eh, Baron ?" 

" Hope so, dear friend. I quite me feel incapacitate to 
voyage in long-sailing vessel : in faith ! I no love the salty 
sea air ; it makes me feel — how say you it in English ? — it 
goes me round like a mill-wheel in my stomach ! I quite 
sea-sick already — Mein Gott ! Ja /" 

" Ha, ha, ha !" laughed the unsympathising voice of the 
companion : " But then it is to reach England you endure 
this sickness, you know — England you so adore — the native 
home of your clever wife, Baron. How the deuce she don't 
make up her mind to accompany you, I can't fathom !" pur- 
sued the same voice, which Margaret had already recognised 
as that of Mr. Fleming. And the other ? It needed not 
for Margaret to have turned her head, when the speakers 
had passed, to recognise in the other the fascinating Baron ! 
There he stood, leaning also over the pier, at a few yards 
distant from her, Mr. Fleming pointing out to him the little 
steamer which that evening was to depart, and by which she 
also was to have taken her passage — most strange coinci- 
dence ! There stood the Baron, sleek and handsome as ever ; 
yet some way how different to the image she had been che- 
rishing of him during her journey, when her ideal of him 
had been called forth as a guardian angel against the phan- 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 119 

toms of her fevered brain. He looked so completely the 
man of the world ; his clothes were of the very best — how 
different to poor Margaret's worn cloak and gown, and old 
last winter's bonnet ! As he raised his gold eye-glass to 
inspect the little stealer, a diamond ring caught a ray of 
sunshine, and flashed, dazzling Margaret's eyes. 



CHAPTEE X. 



COMMENCEMENT OF LIFE IN PAEIS ; SHADOW OE DEATH IN THE SYEIAN 
DESEETj AN HONOUEED GUEST AT ELIMBSTED. 

Margaret is in Paris. The sudden vision of the fasci- 
nating Baron so worked upon our poor heroine, that as soon 
as a trembling of her whole frame, which seized her upon 
recognising her husband in company with Mr. Fleming, had 
passed, she hastened with rapid steps and an indignant 
heart, the diamond ring flashing all the way before her 
mental eye, back to her inn, and from thence hastening 
to the railway, had departed by the very next train leaving 
for Paris. 

That sleek, comfortable, degage air of the Baron; his 
elegant eye-glass ; his fashionable, warm great coat, and above 
ail his diamond ring, so fraught with powerful memories 
to poor Margaret, haunted her with a maddening vividness, 
as she rushed on at headlong speed towards the great city 
where she had no friends, no especial object, but where 
at least she should conceal herself from her husband, and 
from Xavier, where she could be solitary in the midst of a mul- 
titude. England was no longer a home for her. She saw with 
a sickening distinctness how the charming Baron would ac- 
company his friend Fleming down to his home, and to the 
neighbourhood endeared to her by so many memories. She 
heard his broken English, someway now so exciting to her 
nerves, spoken with his elegant bows and sweet smiles in the 
old halls of Elimbsted ; she saw Mrs. Lushington, always pre- 
possessed in his favour we must remember, and Mistress 
Dorothy fairly enamoured of him ; she saw the fetes in his 
honour ; she heard the rolling to and fro of carriages along 
the smooth gravel roads of the park ; she saw him a star of 
the first magnitude down in that quiet steepy hollow ; she 
saw and heard all this, and much more, in her indignation, 
and fairly ground her teeth in bitter disgust. " Miserable, 
miserable, humbug !" murmured she ; " yet, why should I in- 




(^u^yi/ $/- (2?.: cyltf-m/ 



THE ABTIST-WLFE. 121 

dignantly chafe at this knowledge : I who, more than any one 
else, have had my eyes bandaged and befooled by this man's 
tongue. I ought, perhaps, as a loving wife, to rejoice that he 
should be feted, caressed — that he should at least appear to 
the world, if not to me, noble and true. But I'm sick of 
shows. That ring, that last letter of his, and his present 
appearance, what a history they unfold ! God forgive me if 
my disgust is too violent — too indignant. 

But this fresh excitement of mind produced one beneficial 
effect; it despersed all sentimental memories of poorXavier. 
She was aroused to action and reality by many things. Life 
in Paris was new to her. It was some little time before she 
felt herself at home. She had also to set to work without more 
ado to gain money for her subsistence, for she arrived in this 
great rich capital with but about one hundred francs, her very 
meagre wardrobe, her easel and paint-box, and the two 
copies from the Dresden Gallery, sent back to her, as the 
reader may remember, by Xavier. Lessons she gave in 
drawing, and German, to an English family who lived in the 
same house with her. Her two copies from the Dresden 
Gallery she disposed of, and so managed to keep herself 
afloat at first, until she had completed a copy of that beau- 
tiful though quaint picture of Fra Angelico's in the Louvre, 
" The Coronation of the Yirgin," for which she had obtained 
a commission from a London picture-dealer. It was hard 
work this commencement of her Paris sojourn ; but she had 
so long struggled and battled along the road of life that it 
was no small difficulty that daunted her. She again became 
absorbed in her painting, if anything with a two-fold enthu- 
siasm. The Louvre was a temple of holy repose to her ; it, and 
the beautiful church of St. Boch, were all Paris to her. She 
knew scarcely any one, but lived solely for her painting, and 
as her evenings, except such hours as were devoted to in- 
structing the children of the English family we have men- 
tioned, were employed in completing the two designs yet 
remaining of the series for King Ludwig, her time was most 
fully occupied. 

It was Christmas morning, and Margaret arose with the 
prospect of eating a regular English dinner that evening of 
roast-beef and plum-pudding with the family of her pupils. 
She felt in a comfortable, placid enough state of mind, and was 



122 MARGABET YON EHBENBEBG. 

intending to beguile the morning with a lazy rest upon her 
sofa, reading Lamartine's Girondins, a book which had seized 
considerably upon her imagination, when a thick letter 
arrived from Munich. A kind of misgiving someway crept 
over her as she broke the seal, — such a strange atmosphere 
surrounds certain letters. There was a short letter from Lud- 
milla, full of affectionate enquiries after Margaret, and with a 
postscript which, when we have spoken of one of the two 
letters which Ludmilla's letter enclosed, we will extract for 
the benefit of our reader. The other two letters Margaret 
instantly recognised as being, one from Lushington, the 
other from her old correspondent, Mrs. Dorothea. Espe- 
cially distrusting the epistle penned by Mrs. Dorothea's 
stiff little hand, she broke open Lushington' s, to find it a 
long diary of his glorious eastern wandering. Much of it 
read like scenes from the Arabian Nights, so fantastic, 
glowing, and truly oriental. The diary had been penned for 
her and Ludmilla's reading, it said, on Mount Carmel, in 
the desert near Tyre and Sidon, in Damascus, at Nazareth, 
at Jerusalem, at Bethlehem, upon the banks of the Jordan. 
The journey had been a wonderful realization of the dreams 
of his youth, wrote Lushington, and though not without 
certain danger, a harvest of the richest memories. Margaret 
glanced over the greater portion of the closely written 
chronicle of her cousin's wanderings hastily, spite of the 
beautiful and strange things it contained, to see how it was 
with the dear writer at the time his letter had been dis- 
patched. It was from Alexandria he had last written, and 
for weeks there seemed to have been a pause in the chro- 
nicle. He had been ill — ill to death, of the Syrian fever. 
The last lines of the letter were traced with a hand so 
trembling and light, that the words looked as if written in 
cobweb, so slight, so wavering were the lines. But he was 
better ; was going to live many years yet, he trusted. He 
had had strange experiences of life in the desert to the sick, 
to the dying man ; of what the full miseries of quarantine 
laws are, whilst lying within the walls of the Alexandrian 
Lazaretto. Many extraordinary experiences he had had, 
but the most singular thing of all, perhaps, was a dream, a 
vision, whichever you choose to call it, when at the very 
crisis of his fever. It was in the desert. His companions. 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 



123 



had all fled from him, with the exception of his Dragoman. 
How long he had lain in his suffering he knew not, but a 
golden light appeared to fill the tent, and in the centre of 
this light stood Ludmilla, gazing on him with the expression 
of a transfigured saint. In her hand she had a strange 
vessel of burnt clay. " Give unto him to drink, my best 
beloved Ludmilla, let him drink and live," whispered a spirit 
voice ; and Ludmilla, placing the earthen cup in the hands 
of a shrouded form which suddenly appeared beside her, the 
golden light and Ludmilla gradually faded and faded to the 
sound of strange fantastic music, and opening his eyes, 
Lushington had seen kneeling before him, illuminated by 
the red sun just risen above the purple horizon line of 
desert, the identical shrouded figure of the dream, with 
the self-same earthen cup in his hands ; and wild music, slow 
and mournful, was sounding around the tent. It was an 
Arab-doctor, who, amid strange incantations, was adminis- 
tering a healing draught. Lushington wrote, that from 
that moment life seemed, by slow pulsations, to return to 
him, and that although feeble as an infant, and faded to a 
ghost, he felt once more a hold upon life within him. Gra- 
dually he would retrace his way back to England. The 
hand- writing of the envelope showed much stronger than the 
last words of the letter. From this little circumstance 
Margaret gathered hope and comfort. 

How yet more strange would have seemed Lushington' s 
dream to him, could he only have read the words of Lud- 
milla' s postscript. It ran thus : — 

" I some way imagine, dearest Margaret, that one of these 
two letters is from Mr. Lushington : — how anxious I am to 
hear its contents you may suppose, when I tell you — do not 
laugh now at my relation of visions and dreams, as you usually 
do — that a few weeks past I suddenly was startled by hearing 
in my sleep, about daybreak, the voice of a dearly beloved 
one, who, as I have often assured you, guards and directs me in 
any event of life of more than ordinary import. The dear voice 
said, ' Arise, Ludmilla ! one very dear to us all is sick unto 
death.' And it seemed to me, Margaret, that I obeyed the 
voice, and standing suddenly within a tent pitched in the 
desert, saw Mr. Lushington stretched like a corpse upon a 



124 MAEGAEET YON EHEEKBEEG 

heap of cloaks. Again I heard the dear voice saying, * Grive 
unto him to drink, my best beloved Ludmilla ; let him drink 
and live.' And I found in my hand a strangely shaped 
vessel of burnt clay, from which proceeded a fresh, pungent 
odour. A dark figure, his head shrouded in white hood-like 
drapery, now stood beside me, whilst wild mournful music 
sounded without the tent. Into the hands of this figure I 
felt I must consign the strange vessel of clay, and as I did 
so, the form of our dear friend gradually faded away, — the 
tent, the desert, the shrouded figure, and the wild music ; 
but it seemed to me that a roseate light, like a reflection of 
the up-rising sun, flickered over his sharp pallid features, and 
that he stirred like one waking out of a deep slumber. This 
dream for days haunted me with a strange vividness. Write 
to me, dearest Margaret, immediately upon the receipt of 
these letters, and let me hear how it is with Mr. Lushington. 
Once more adieu. " Ludmilla." 

Margaret could not, indeed, laugh at this strange coinci- 
dence, but she was still too anxious by far about Mrs. 
Dorothea's letter at the present moment to ponder and 
speculate upon the singularity of this double dream, as at 
another time she would have done. She walked several 
times up and down the room before she could summon 
courage to open • the second letter, but at length she did, 
in a sort of mechanical manner, looking out at the window, 
and then reading the carefully written date and address 
very slowly, as if spelling out each familiar word. 

The letter was considerably long, and written, as was 
usual with her old correspondent, at various times. "We 
will only give those passages from the epistle which par- 
ticularly affected our heroine. 

" It was, as my dear young friend may suppose, a great 
surprise, and caused no little flurry in Mrs. Lushington, — 
who, by the way, this summer, seems, I regret to write it, 
to have become more than usually nervous, and even some- 
what feeble, — when our neighbour, Mr. Fleming, called one 
morning about luncheon-time, accompanied by a tall, hand- 
some, foreign- looking gentleman: who the gentleman was, 
my dear friend has long since guessed. Wilmot ushered 
them into the dining-room : we were sitting in our great- 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 125 

aunt's dressing-room, and had seen them alight out of Mr. 
Fleming's dog-cart, and pass into the hall, and soon Wilmot 
brought their cards, one of which, as soon as your aunt had 
seen it, — a very pretty card to my mind it is, with its coronet 
and simple name, my dear — she went all into a tremble, and 
giving a little scream, I thought would have gone off into 
hysterics. ' It is, only think, Dolly,' said she, ' the husband 
of poor Isabella's child, the G-erman baron' ; and then she 
went quite red all of a sudden, and said, ' Give me some 
spirits of lavender ! quick, Dolly, and lend me your arm : we 
must not keep him waiting, Dolly : and Dolly,' said she, as 
we descended the stairs, ' I trust that silly child has not 
married a man who cannot speak English.' * * 

" The Baron, as I have already described, has long since 
become quite a member of our little family ; he has won all 
our hearts by his amiable manners and great accomplish- 
ments. Tour aunt has long since ceased to wonder at your 
marrying a foreigner, when he is such a one as Baron von 
Ehrenberg. She says to me in private that she is thankful 
to heaven for such a happy lot having fallen upon you. I 
felt, I must confess, rather displeased with the Baron. You 
will, my dear young friend, pardon my freedom in saying this, 
but you remember Dolly was always a candid speaker. I 
felt, I say, a bit of displeasure against Baron von Ehrenberg 
for not having brought you with him, but as he said to me, 
with his very sweet smile and graceful manner, 6 that I must 
quarrel with you about that, and not with him, and that no 
pleasure he enjoys here is half a pleasure unaccompanied as 
he is by you, and as he assures me that your pleasure in his 
letters detailing all the small news of our doings will be 
extreme, I must pardon him. But also I have felt a little 
vexed with you, my dear ; and that is, because you have 
never written to him all the time he has been here. He 
appears much to desire tidings from you, but with the 
extremest sweetness will permit no reflections to be cast upon 
you. ' She is so very much occupied with her painting,' he 
says, ' that he never expects often to hear of you.' I 
hardly, however, think this kind of you, my dear." * 

" November ISth. — Our dear Baron is still with us; we 
are always afraid of his taking his departure. Your aunt 
seems to have grown quite young again since the dear 



126 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

Baron, the ' fascinating Baron,' as Mrs. Fleming and the 
Miss Masseys have called him — don't, my dear, be jealous — 
has been at Flimbsted. We have had such gaiety as these 
old walls have never before seen, perhaps. The Baron has 
introduced charades, and acted proverbs, and many extraor- 
dinary dances ; he is the life of our little social assemblies. 
Mrs. Lushington is quite enthusiastic about the Baron's 
music and singing. My dear, you have not written us half 
praises enough of your fascinating husband. But I fear all 
these pleasant and gay evenings will soon be at an end ; the 
dear Baron says he must really leave us. You, my dear, will 
greatly delight, I doubt not, at this news. Mrs. Lushington, 
who is sitting beside me, bids me say that she has had the 
pleasure of placing in your husband's hands for you, as a 
small token of her affection, a cheque for £100. She felt a 
little embarrassment about doing this ; but the dear Baron, 
with his charming candour, kissing your aunt's hand — a 
piece of politeness in the foreign manners of your dear hus- 
band much to Mrs. Lushiogton's taste, as it reminds her of 
the fine manners of the gentlemen in her youthful days — 
well, my dear, I was going to observe, that kissing your 
aunt's hand with his inimitable grace, he observed with his 
charming candour, that though you were now a German 
baroness, your German nobility in wealth, though not in 
rank, was considerably inferior to your English nobility, 
and that, knowing well the depth of his dear wife's funds, 
he could answer with perfect heartfelt pleasure that the 
token of affection would in every way be most acceptable." 

" Our delightful guest is now gone upon a short tour with 
Mr. Fleming into Wales and Scotland. It is, unluckily, not 
quite the season for a foreigner to see these lovely countries 
to advantage ; but still the Baron seemed bent upon the 
little tour, saying he knew not when again he might have 
an opportunity. But he has agreed to spend Christmas 
with us, and so, my dear, you may imagine the old house 
full of unaccustomed mirth. The dear Baron professes him- 
self delighted with England ; but this, and doubtless all 
particulars of his sojourn among us, you will be well ac- 
quainted with. Fox-hunting with Mr. Fleming has been 
an extraordinary excitement to your dear husband ; but we 



THE ABTIST-WXFE. 127 

have been in extreme terror, your aunt and I, each time that 
he has gone out with the hounds, fearing broken bones or 
necks. But your dear husband seems a rich nature, which 
can enjoy all manner of things : the sweets of song and 
music — the reading of even the eminent divines, so dear to 
your aunt — the mazy dance — the beauteous forms of nature, 
and the excitement of the chase. Tour aunt is as anxiously 
expecting his return as though she were a young girl in love. 
She has determined, upon his return, to accompany him to 
all the little fetes given in his honour, at the Flemings', 
Masseys', and other neighbours ; and in order to do this in 
perfect ease, has had the old family coach fresh lined and 
cushioned, and purchased a new fur-lined cloak and a black 
satin hood. On Christmas-day all dined here. We wish we 
could only have you, my dear, among us ; but you must 
imagine the grand doings : the dinner is to be at seven, at 
which all the family plate is to figure, and Wilmot and his 
underlings in new liveries. We are beginning to anticipate 
the return of Mr. Herbert : perhaps he also may join in our 
Christmas party ; that would be charming for him to make 
the acquaintance of the Baron." 

At seven o'clock on Christmas-day, when doubtless the 
fascinating Baron was receiving all the incense of Elimbsted 
flattery, and when Margaret ought to have been partaking 
of the good turkey, roast-beef, and plum-pudding of her 
English acquaintance in her Parisian home, she was lying 
upon her sofa, her eyes shaded from all light, and a cloth 
soaked in eau- de-cologne upon her burning forehead. It 
was lucky for poor Margaret that a violent headache she 
could with truth plead as her excuse for not eating the good 
English dinner, heartache being an excuse never imagined 
or accepted in " polite circles." 



OHAPTEE XI. 

DEATH AT THE BAKKICADES ; A STKEAK OP DAWN. 

Sickness of heart, disgust at falseness, contempt and anger, 
all gradually are brushed away by the wings of Time. Mar- 
garet avoided all remembrance of her husband ; and no more 
tidings, either of him or of poor Lushington, had reached 
her. To Lushington she would so gladly have written, 
addressing a letter to him at Flimbsted ; but how could she 
direct there, when no letters of hers had even been seen to 
arrive there for her husband ? No, as in many another 
time, she strove " in patience to possess her soul." The 
quiet of her art-life had brought, at length, peace with it, 
and she was living in the pleasant prospect of a visit in the 
spring from her dear Ludmilla. In the same letter which 
had announced this pleasant news, were these words also, — 
" The other day, our old friend Mr. Xavier called upon 
us. We had wondered rather how it was that we had 
seen and heard nothing of him for so long a time : but he 
has been ill, it seems : he looked very thin and pale ; but 
there was something about him more agreeable than usual, 
to my eyes : his countenance, in its emaciation, and with 
those large, clear, brown eyes of his, reminded me quite 
startingly of the head of St. John in that wonderful little 
picture by our favourite Memling, in that Pinakothek. He 
brought us a very beautiful collection of dried Alpine plants 
to show us, and some really lovely drawings he had been 
making of leaves and flowers from nature. He surprised 
us all greatly by saying that he was seriously thinking of 
devoting himself to botanical research, and of visiting, for 
this purpose, the Tropics : he seems really in serious earnest 
about this, and has been preparing himself in various ways 
— by attending botanical lectures at the University, by 
studying careful drawings of plants, under the guidance 

of his friend N ; and, also, as it is especially with 

reference to studying the medicinal qualities of plants that 




^Isarffi/ a& M& ^mMstca/ze/ 



THE AETIST-WIFE. 129 

lie intends visiting the Tropics, certain courses of medical 
lectures. I fancy his recent illness has had a deal to do 
with this sudden resolve of his. Mr. Xavier told us also 
that, before leaving Europe, he was visiting Paris to prose- 
cute there certain enquiries, and to endeavour to induce, if 
possible, a young French physician, much interested in 
botanical research, to accompany him. We said, of course 
when he was in Paris he would see you : he seemed much 
surprised, I thought, to hear that you were in Paris, and 
such a momentary embarrassment passed across his counte- 
nance that my old suspicions about the state of his heart — 
pardon me, dear friend — returned. He asked for your ad- 
dress : so doubtless you will see our friend ; but be on your 
guard." 

But week after week rolled by, and no Xavier presented 
himself, — neither did Margaret expect any such thing : she 
felt that the true spirit of noble action had arisen in his soul, 
and she thanked G-od for it ; and a great weight seemed 
removed from her mind. 

But Xavier had both seen and watched her daily, though 
unknown to her, with an anxiety and care greater by far 
than that with which he had once, disguised as an Indian, 
watched her very action at the artists' ball at Munich : 
this he had done for weeks, having taken lodgings in the 
same street as hers — determined to guard her so long as 
was possible during his short stay in Europe. A growing 
feeling, too, which he perceived everywhere in the public 
mind, of some approaching mighty political and social revo- 
lution, which already, spite of clear skies, growled low and 
terribly like distant thunder, actuated him to this line of 
conduct. He seemed detained, as if spell-bound, near to 
her still,so dear to his soul. 

And it was not long ere the revolution of 1848 broke 
suddenly over Paris and Europe with a crash of the mightiest 
tempest. Margaret, believing, for the first moment, that now 
would arrive a day of true freedom ; that now all moral re- 
forms would be wrought out with the glory of surprising 
miracles by a people penetrated at length by the doctrines 
of love and peace ; that the poet Lamartine would be a 
legislator such as the world had never yet witnessed ; and 
that a dawn of such resplendent glory was at hand as never 



130 MARGA.RET TON EHKENBERG. 

yet had beamed except in poets' souls, was carried away by 
an enthusiasm such as only such a nature — sanguine, poetic, 
and at the same time deeply religious— as hers could feel. 
Her own personality seemed utterly absorbed in the vast 
struggle going on around her ; the intense enthusiasm and 
faith had cast out all fear. 

One evening of that eventful February, listening with 
throbbing heart to the sounds of the " Marseillaise" sung 
by a thousand excited voices passing along beneath her win- 
dow, to the distant booming of deadly cannon, mingling with 
the tolling of bells and the shouts of a mad crowd watching 
a sudden glare of fire which gleamed up and suddenly 
illuminated the ceiling of her rooms with its red splendour, 
Margaret was startled by having a little hastily-written 
billet thrust into her hand by a man in a blouse, who, stained 
with blood and smoke, unceremoniously entered, and, saying 
"Madame, Monsieur le Docteur awaits you below," again 
disappeared. 

The words of the note, written in pencil and in French, 
ran thus : — 

'' Madame la Baronne de Ehrenberg is requested immedi- 
ately to accompany a friend to Hospital to see a dying 

friend. Madame la Baronne need have no fear : the dying- 
man has fought like a hero for ' Liberie, Egalite, Fraternite.' " 

In a moment Margaret was below, where a singularly 
grave young Frenchman, totally unknown to her, hastily 
conducted her away towards the hospital by paths and by 
ways which were as completely strange to her as though they 
were in a city she had never before set foot in ; but dread- 
ful sights and sounds met them everywhere, though all great 
thoroughfares were avoided by her silent guide. Margaret's 
soul began to grow sick, and recoil with horror against this, 
as she had, seated within her home, believed it, bloodless 
revolution. 

" Madame la Baronne must prepare herself to meet the 
face of a very dear friend: but he has fallen nobly — he has 
shown himself a perfect hero : ma joi ! Madame, he might 
have been a Frenchman !" " Is it — is it — Monsieur Xavier r" 
hoarsely demanded Margaret, with terrible horror creeping 
through her veins. " Monsieur le Docteur knows the name 
of the unfortunate gentleman ?" 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 181 

" No, no, Madame ; it is no Monsieur Xavier ! it is, 
Madame, a person nearer — dearer : Madame must be pre- 
pared— but be bas fallen, fighting at a barricade, like a bero — 
like a Frenchman: upon his tomb may be engraved the 
words, ; Liberte, Egalite, Eraternite.' " 

" Lushington !" gasped Margaret, and her soul fainted 
"within her. 

" Pardon, Madame ! no : no, Monsieur de Lussintone. 
But we are just arrived : may the good Glod give Madame 
strength!" 

" Oh, it is some strange mistake !" said Margaret to her- 
self, greatly relieved as she followed her mysterious conductor 
up the great ghastly staircases, and along ghastly passages 
of the hospital, where, every now and then, some sad sight 
or sound encountered them, as in the street through which 
they had wended their miserable way. 

At length they paused at the door of a little room : 
Margaret's heart beat wildly; it seemed as though she 
should be choked by its wild throbbing — as though they 
blinded, deafened her. At a low knock of her conductor her 
door slowly opened, and a Sister of Charity, with her meek 
face, stood there. 

" Madame is come, — but too late !" andher gentle eyes 
swimming with tears : — " The holy Grod be ever blessed : 
He giveth comfort to the widow and to the orphan. Madame, 
your husband died in peace !" 

It was Margaret's husband! Lighted by pale tapers 
burning around the simple bed, white as sculptured marble, 
with an expression of peace, of truth, such as never he had 
borne in life — transfigured as he had appeared in Margaret's 
dreams — he lay there, his hands crossed upon his breast, 
through the waxen figures of which, and through pure white 
linen, shone an awful gleam of crimson which had oozed from 
the death-wound. No diamond ring now gleamed on those 
well known, death-stricken hands. 

The agony of Margaret, the shock, was untold : the gentle 
Sister of Charity and the Doctor imagined hers the grief of 
simple affection, and endeavoured to soothe her with the 
words of love addressed to her absent ear by the dying 
man : but each word was only a still more cruel stab. Hers 
was a horrible remorse ; for that which could, alas ! have 



132 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

been no otherwise, unless Margaret had possessed a love 
deeper than that of any mortal. But in the depths of her 
bitter misery her forgetfulness of him. seemed a crime 
flagrant enough to brand her with Grod's curse, at that judg- 
ment throne before which now, perchance, the soul of that 
poor corpse was appearing. How affecting, now, to her 
heart appeared his miserable weakness, which in life 
had hardened her very soul against him, till at times it had 
seemed harder than the nether millstone. T.he angel of 
death, in this case as in so many another, was also the 
angel of reconciliation. 

" You said he spoke of me with love, with forgiveness, 
Sister ?" asked Margaret's broken voice, in the early dawn of 
the next day, as she stretched forth her feeble hand from the 
bed in her own house, whither she had been conveyed from 
the hospital in a swoon by the Doctor and the good Sister of 
Charity. 

" He spoke of Madame with tender love — he prayed foi 
the forgiveness of Madame for many sins — he prayed that 
masses might be said for his soul — he prayed that Madame 
would see that this was done — he prayed God and the Virgin 
to permit him to see Madame again, if but for one moment, 
in this life — he prayed as a little child prays : and then, as if 
in delirium, addressed both Madame and Madame sa mere : 
much that he said was in a strange tongue. But Madame 
may rest assured Monsieur died in peace." 

A strange foreign gentleman, each day, and several times 
in each day, during Margaret's illness, enquired anxiously 
after her from the Sister of Charity and from the Doctor, 
who visited her with unwearying zeal ; and with the Doctor 
had many a long and deep discourse. At length, on the third 
day, ascertaining that the invalid was considerably better, 
and somewhat calmer in mind, spite of many head-shakings 
of the Doctor, he placed in the Sister's hand a note to be 
delivered to Margaret in the course of the day, should she 
still continue calmer and better. 

Margaret, after a deep sleep, upon waking, read these 
words, which by the Sister's gentle hand had been laid upon 
her pillow during her sleep- 



THE AETIST-WIFE. 133 

" All care regarding the interment of Monsieur le Baron 
de Ehrenberg has been taken upon himself by a friend of 
the late Baron's, who was present when he received the 
fatal wound. All the last requests regarding Monsieur le 
Baron's burial,, according to the rites of his religion, will 
be with pious eare observed. Should it soothe the grief of 
Madame la Baronne to witness the last honours paid to the 
dead, at midnight on the 2nd of March, a close carriage will 
be sent for Madame. The ceremony, owing to the unhappy 
state of Paris, can only be most private. Monsieur le Baron 
will be buried in the small grave-yard of the hospital. 
Madame need feel under no obligation to the unknown 
friend who thus has taken upon himself these last sad offices. 
It is a pure holy friendship which inspires him.; — where 
there is holy friendship there can be no painful obligation." 

" Oh, again how selfish is my soul !" exclaimed Margaret, 
starting up from her bed in a wild anguish ; " how cruel, how 
selfish ! how have I forgotten to think of even the last sad 
duties to the dead ! G-od seeks, with terrible justice, to 
visit my cruel hardness upon my head. But better servants 
are found to do His work." 

It was long before the Sister of Charity could succeed in 
restoring her to repose, so essential to her recovery. The 
Doctor shook his head more than ever, and pronounced it 
madness for her to persist in her intention of being present 
at the funeral.. 

But the nearer that sad midnight approached, the stronger, 
the calmer, poor Margaret became : she clothed herself as 
she arose from her sick-bed with the black dress prepared 
for her, asking no questions ; her heart seemed to have ap- 
sorbed all common faculties or curiosity. "When the time 
approached for the arrival of the expected carriage, she 
recognised its sounds with a quick instinct, though her ears 
had seemed closed to the awful roar of revolution often roll- 
ing around her during her illness. 

She silently motioned to the Sister of Charity to follow 
her, as with rapid steps she descended to the mourning- 
carriage : she was assisted into it by her kind and attentive 
physician, who accompanied them to the little burial-ground 
which, at the back of the vast hospital, from the many win- 
dows of which shone out flickering lights, telling of watchers 



184 MMtaAKET YON EHKENBEKG. 

by many a couch of suffering. God's beacons shone out of 
the dark heavens, watching a world of suffering, also ; and 
in the distance fitfully tolled bells and rolled drums, and 
at times came -upon the ear shouts and the chant of the 
Girondists and the Marseillaise hymn. A little procession, 
headed by white-robed choristers bearing tapers, proceeds 
from beneath a heavy archway : the golden crucifix gleams 
like a star as the torches flash upon it : the choristers chant 
a low hymn, swinging their censers : the bier, preceded by 
a couple of priests, comes slowly along : the black folds of 
the pall, the wreath of laurel, the broken sword and green 
felt-hat of the Baron lying upon the coffin disclosed by the 
red glare of torches borne by the choristers, by the priests, 
by the pall bearers, and by a dark figure who walks alone 
bringing up the rear, and whose face is shrouded in his 
cloak. 

Margaret, with faltering steps and a heart bleeding tears 
of blood, joins the procession, walking side by side with the 
solitary mourner. The physician and Sister of Charity 
follow them. They reach the open grave in the crowded 
church-yard : the funeral service is read : Margaret finds, 
with a strange surprise, that it is in the Baron's native 
tongue that it is read, — thatthe officiating priest is a German. 
The coffin is lowered into the dark earth: there is that 
sound of earth falling with a hollow thump upon the coffin- 
lid, of updrawn grating creeking cords, so sickening to 
human hearts. 

A pale streak of early day, like a silver thread of hope, 
dawns along the dark horizon : the torches have smouldered 
away, the priests, the pall bearers, the choristers, have 
vanished ; the physician and the Sister of Charity have 
retired beneath that dark archway : but Margaret, as if 
petrified to the brink of the grave, stands yet leaning upon 
the arm of the silent mourner. The silver thread spreads 
and spreads along the sky, which grows ever bluer and bluer. 
" Margaret ! the future which lies before that poor corpse 
— before thee, my friend — before me — may God make as 
that silver thread," spoke a voice in familiar home- 
like German, close to Margaret's ear : and the voice was 
Xavier's : yet Margaret started not — she removed not her 
arm, but turned her white face, yet whiter in the cold light 



THE ARTIST- WIFE. 135 

of dawn, towards his, and her lips moved, but no words came 
forth. 

" Here, Margaret," pursued the solemn voice, " upon the 
grave of thy husband I again see thee, and here it is that 
thou must wish me well upon a long journey I am about to 
commence ; let thy prayers be with me, as mine ever will 
be thine, and as our united prayers will be for the poor 
dead." 

" Thou hast no bitterness in thy soul against him ?" 
muttered Margaret's trembling, stiff lips : " May God 
reward thee for thy charity thy love !" 



CHAFTEE XII. 

£0 ! THE WINTEB IS PAST ; THE BAIN IS OVER AND GONE. 

Lf we had seen our heroine towards the end of September 
in the year 1851, we should have found her in considerably 
more happy circumstances than those under which we parted 
with her. The silver thread of hope, and the azure of the 
heavens, have both widened and deepened.. 

We find her leaning upon the arm of Herbert Lushington ; 
she is still wearing mourning, and a deeper shade of earnest- 
ness than ever lies in her dark eyes : her beautiful hair has 
here and there a thread of silver among its gold ; but 
these to her are also rather "threads of hope" than of 
sorrow. The glory, the freshness of youth, has passed away 
from her since the climax of her grief, in that sad time in 
Paris : but a gentleness, a patience, a faith, a humility, have 
each day strengthened and bloomed within her spirit, casting; 
around her countenance a hue of heaven more beautiful than 
any hue cr glory of youth ; a hue, a reflection, which will, 
one feels, only strengthen and increase in beauty the nearer 
and the nearer her steps approach the gates of heaven and of 
death. Herbert Lushington in his soul's garden has also 
similar sweet herbs blooming, which also fling similar lights 
and reflections upon his countenance : they are both faces,, 
you say, which never grow old, for each day their spirits are 
approaching nearer immortality. 

They are passing a quaint fountain in the beautiful stately 
gardens of Flimbsted manor : an old bronze Triton stretches- 
forth his green arm blowing upon his shell, and rich festoons 
of gorgeous creepers, gold and coral, with their autumn tints,, 
are wreathed around him. A flicker of richest sunshine 
gleams upon splashing water, green Triton, orange and ver- 
milion creepers, broad water-lily leaves, and the two peace- 



THE ARTIST-WIEE. 137 

fill wanderers through the garden, who pause, and, remark- 
ing the beauty of the effects, fall into pleasant discourse of 
long past times, unutterably dear to both, and which this 
fountain, and the whole autumnal scene, have vividly called- 
forth in both their memories. 

But their discourse is cut short by the approach of 
another group of friends from a side garden, fenced in from the 
fountain and terraces by high walls of closely clipped box, 
the growth of several centuries* This group consists of no 
other than our dear Ludmilla — more beautiful, ana far more 
joyous-looking than ever : round her beautiful neck and waist 
are wound the loving arms of a- beautiful young girl — half 
child, half woman, who has Lushington's tender deep blue 
eyes, his luxuriant chesnut hair, his noble brow : one hand 
of Ludmilla' s> upon which glitter in the sun-light two 
wedding-ringSj lovingly resting side by side, is entwined in 
this beautiful hair : the other hand rests in the arm of her 
dear old father, our Hofrath and critic : he looks younger 
than ever, and his step is now constantly the step of a 
youth. 

As the two groups approach, the young girl, kissing with 
loving lips the soft hand of Ludmilla, and carolling forth 
with a wild deep melody, " Mother, mine !" and untwining 
her arms lightly from around Ludmilla, darts forward like a 
young fawn towards Herbert Lushington, and twining them 
around him,- leans her soft cheek lovingly upon his arm, 
accompanying him and' Margaret in- silent affection up 
towards the stately old house, from which already is tolling- 
the sonorous dinner-bell. 

In this sweet young girl we would introduce to the reader 
a fresh joy in Margaret's life, the young Signild, in whom 
each day devolopes itself, in the atmosphere of love and art 
around, her, a spirit in harmony with all that is noblest 
and most beautiful in the world. 

Wonderful things, indeed, we see must have taken place 
since last we were in company with all these dear people, 01 
before they thus could have assembled in such peculiar 
relationships at that stately old Flimbsted manor. 

Where was old Mrs. Lushington ? Is she cooped up, poor 
old soul, in a sick-chamber H or is she preparing, perhaps, an 



138 MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 

elaborate toilette for the dinner hour ? No : she is cooped 
up in a strange chamber where never more mortal lips shall 
partake of dinner, however costly : she is cooped up in a 
marble sarcophagus within the walls of Flimbsted-little-stone 
Church, the slender spire of which you may see glittering in 
the sunshine over those autumnal woods yonder upon the 
hill-side. Thither, in the month of March, 1848, within four 
days of another funeral connected with our history, had the 
old lady's mortal remains been borne, with every imaginary 
pomp, in a hearse the handsomest that money could command, 
followed by a long train of carriages from all the first 
families in the county, the Flemings and Masseys of course 
among the number, with trains of servants following — with 
the pensioners of the Flimbsted bounty — with all the 
villagers of Flimbsted and Flimbsted-little-stone lining the 
road to the church, wearing, the men upon their hats, the 
women upon their bonnets, the finest black crape, — the gift 
of the deceased old lady — with a funeral sermon, preached 
by the bishop of the diocese,— with her pall supported by 
youths from the most aristocratic families in the shire : and 
so the great Mrs. Lushington of Flimbsted Manor, Flimbsted, 
shire, descended into her marble tomb. 

And so great is the ceremony, that an artist is dispatched 
straight from London to graphically convey, through the 
medium of the " Illustrated London News," the pomp of the 
rich Mrs. Lushington's funeral, of Flimbsted Manor, of 

Flimbsted, shire, through the world and down to future 

generations, together with pictures of tragedies enacting at 
Paris in the same week : among them the death of the valiant 
and heroic Baron von Ehrenberg, the German refugee, shotdead 
on the barricade, before the church of St. Grermains Auxerrois. 

And the Illustrated News that brought down into shire 

this wonderful picture of worldly pomp, brought with it the 
first news, to his admiring friends, of the tragedy which ter- 
minated the earthly career of him who henceforth remains in 
their memories rather as the heroic than " as the fascinating 
Baron." 

And after the great pompous funeral, came the great 
pompous reading of the will, with great pompous lawyers 
arriving from London, in great pompous carriages, sent to 



THE AETIST-WirE. .139 

meet them from the old house at the nearest station on the 
great line of railway. 

But scarcely had the ceremony commenced, with all the 
relatives of the deceased assembled in the great dining-room, 
than the heir to the entailed property, Herbert Lushing- 
ton, of whom no one had been able to give any account for 
these several months past, arrived. 

What a bustle and nutter of sable garments there was in 
that sombre old wainscotted room, as the pale, ghost-like 
Herbert Lushington, with his eyes clearer and more 
wonderfully unearthly than ever, since he had passed 
through a portion of the shadow of the valley of death, 
entered the room, clad in his mourning garments! And 
with calm dignity he seated himself in an ebony chair inlaid 
with ivory, which stood at the head of the long oaken 
board which shone as if of polished steel, and motioned the 
solemn lawyer to recommence the reading ot the large 
parchment. 

And there was one clause which the solemn pompous 
lawyer, as he glanced his eye over to as he approached that 
portion of the document, which would, he expected, pro- 
duce an extraordinary effect upon the pale, ghost-like man 
seated at the head of the long table; he feared fainting — a 
fit, perhaps. Had he been possessed of a compassionate 
heart, holding this belief his voice would have faltered 
somewhat, as he read how, although the estate was entailed 
upon the said Herbert Lushington, together with the 
horses, carriages, family plate, linen, pictures, &c, &c, &c, 
bequeathed to him, yet that certain personal property of 
Anna Isabella Lushington, and certain moneys in the funds 
and in various railways, canal companies, &c, &c, amount- 
ing altogether to a vast property, were left to her dearly- 
beloved grand-nephew by marriage, Conrad Adelbert Baron 
von Ehrenberg, native of Munich, in Bavaria, and, in case of 
his decease, to her niece Margaret von Ehrenberg, his 
wife. 

But, contrary to the expectation of the lawyers and all 
present, the pale man flushed a rosy-red, and such a hearty 
exclamation of delight burst from his lips, that, for the first 
moment, all believed that their ears must have deceived 
them. But though the rosy-red quickly faded into a white 



140 MJLRGABET VON EHBENBEEG. 

as of old ivory,, the pale Herbert Lushington again waved 
his hand with a calm dignity, as signal for the lawyer to 
pursue his reading. 

The other bequests followed, having reference to various 
public charities in. the county-town, to the Flimbsted Bounty,, 
which henceforth would be enriched by the bounty of Anna 
Isabella Lushington to Wilmot and an old housekeeper, to 
the female charity-school of Flimbsted-little-stone, and to 
the almshouses in the said village ; but of one name there 
was no mention — and that was Mrs. Dorothea's, the almost 
life-long companion, the. nurse, the humble, devoted per- 
secuted friend of the rich old lady ! 

As Lushington vainly listened to catch, the name of this 
worthy woman, Mrs. Dorothea, this forgotten blessing of 
the rich old woman's life — a blessing as necessary to her, 
and as soon forgotten, as the air she breathed, as the pure 
water with which she had laved her poor body, now crumb- 
ling into corruption, as the light and sunshine which had 
shone about her for the seventy-nine years she had inhabited 
God's beautiful: world, Lushington's pale face again "waxed 
rosy-red :" but this time with anger, not with joy ; and when 
the lawyer had solemnly and pompously folded up his large 
parchment, Lushington stepped out before the whole as- 
sembly, who, many of them, had been casting glances towards 
the little, downcast, meek woman seated near the door, ex- 
pecting also to hear her name come round among the benevo- 
lent bequests, and striding with the air of an indignant 
monarch, yet with the smile of an angel upon his lips, 
towards her, and taking up the cold hand of abashed little 
Dorothea, he said, — " My dear cousin, in the presence of all 
our kindred here assembled, let it be known that if the once 
possessor of this mansion could forget so great a (rod's gift 
as you, I, the present possessor, cannot: my dear cousin, 
where my home is> your home is also." And the little 
woman fell weeping out her full heart upon his manly 
breast, enfolded in his thin arms ; and, though there was 
many a disappointed heart in the assembly, as poor old 
Dorothea's had been> there certainly at that moment was 
not a single dry eye. 

Of what occurred during the following few months we 
can give but a most hasty sketch. Lushington began ia 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 141 

earnest to put into practice the theories of life which for 
years he had been developing within his brain and heart. 
All that philanthropy conld do to benefit the inhabitants of 
the neighbourhood was commenced-: there was, in the eourse 
of a year or so, such drainage, ventilation, and. improvement 
of sewerage in the village of Mimbsted and Flimbsted- 
little-stone, that the Sanitary Commissioners, who had in a 
body come down at Luskington's request for a regular con- 
sultation on the requirements of the neighbourhood, finding 
their benevolent plans so thoroughly and so beneficially 
carried out, have been holding up iFlimbsted and Elimb- 
eted-little-stone as an example to the whole English nation. 

Then, there were schools for young and old, boys and 
girls, with every possible means provided for the enlighten- 
ment of the poor clodpoles ; there were model cottages 
building with hollow bricks, and from plans furnished by 
the Board of Health ; there was a savings-bank, public-baths 
and wash-houses — in short, it is impossible for me to say 
what that has been proposed of benevolent and Christian 
in this age, that was not here tried by Lushington, and, 
on the whole, with the most surprising results. 

But we must hasten to the end of our history. Signild, 
the beloved child, returned home to send the sunshine of 
buoyant youth through the old mansion. Dorothea and 
she instantly loved and appreciated each other. 

Herbert Lushington, however, was filled with various 
<cares ; no news could be obtained of Margaret since her 
husband's sad death, except that, after remaining a week in 
her old lodging, she packed together her few possessions and 
departed. Unceasing were his enquiries. At length, from 
a clue obtained through Ludmilla and the Hofrath, who 
were equally anxious about their beloved and unhappy friend, 
Margaret was discovered in a quiet village of Devonshire, at 
work upon a landscape which must some day assume a high 
rank in the annals of art. 

Lushington and Signild entering her cottage were as a 
vision from Grod to her. 

She was surprised and extremely affected at the news of 
the great wealth thus singularly fallen upon her ; and, after 
a secret sigh heaved in remembering for whom it had origi- 
nally been intended, and saying to herself, " Alas ! poor 



1-12 MARGARET YON EHRENBEEG. 

Conrad, had you ever possessed such wealth perhaps you 
might have been shielded from your miserable temptations," 
— she began, with her sanguine and benevolent enthusiasm, 
to build castles in the air untold for the amelioration of the 
sufferings of humanity, especially for the amelioration of the 
sufferings of women and of artists, with whom she had 
especial sympathies. 

Her face was so worn, and her whole frame so shat- 
tered, that Lushington and Signild insisted there and then 
upon carrying her off with them to dear old Flimbsted ; 
and the prospect was one too joyful for her to resist. And 
so, with her glorious landscape carefully packed up in a case 
hastily knocked together by the village carpenter, with her 
few clothes and her old easel and paint-box, which had wit- 
nessed so many changes, stowed away in Lushington's 
travelling-carriage, — the heiress, Margaret von Ehrenberg, 
entered the old home of her mother. 

The meeting between herself and Mrs. Dorothea was 
extremely affecting ; and to Margaret the most affecting thing 
of all in the new old home was the respect paid to her in 
this old house as the widow of the Baron, who to all these 
simple souls had become, through their imaginations, a kind 
of demi-god. Margaret had long arisen from that plain of 
selfish suffering when to hear praise bestowed in good faith, 
though undeserved, upon her unhappy husband, pained and 
irritated her. She thanked God that in the souls of many 
of these good people the memory of her husband was become 
a blessed thought. And Grod also she thanked for having 
preserved her, however goaded by misery, from having with 
her wife's tongue cast a slur upon his name. And gradually 
these constant praises on those simple lips became a balm 
and comfort to her bruised spirit. 

Lushington proposed that, ere the autumn, Margaret, 
Signild, and he, should visit Ludmilla and the dear old 
Hofrath ; and both the ladies joyfully seconded his proposal. 
Dear old Mrs. Dorothea was left as manager of all the various 
works, public and private, going on at Flimbsted ; and, cer- 
tainly, seldom before had such an important, useful, happy 
little old woman existed as Mrs. Dorothea had now become. 
And truly she might be happy: for never was goodness 
more appreciated, — never had any one lived in a greater 



THE ABTIST-WIEE 143 

atmosphere of love, internal and external, — and never had a 
life of toil been rewarded by a more blessed certainty of 
absence in old age of every earthly care. 

The meeting of the dear friends and lovers, — for such 
Ludmilla's and Lushington' s hearts had long declared each 
other, — was one of those passages of human life too holy to 
be described by pen unless it could write the words in a 
flood of celestial light. The dear old haunts were revisited by 
Margaret and Signild, who each day in that Art-city un- 
folded a soid which kindled into an enthusiasm of the deepest 
poetry at every vision of beauty revealed to her. Margaret 
standing in Kaulbach's or in Schwanthaler's studio, and 
seeing those beaming young eyes dilate with the first 
awakening emotion of divinest love and wonder, such as 
escapes towards our creation from artists' souls in presence 
of great artists' labours in an incense of burning joy and 
love, has clasped the dear child to her soul, and thanked God 
for placing in her path a being so noble, pure, and poetic, 
who might accomplish in her day that work which'her own 
hands might prove too feeble ever to accomplish. 

" Provided the work be done, what matters who is the 
labourer ? only blessed is he indeed who doeth the work ;" 
her soul would exclaim within itself. 

Ludmilla and Lushington meantime were bathed in a 
bliss, a trust and one-heartedness, which augured a future 
as near to heaven as God, for His own wondrous and un- 
fathomable purposes, ever permits to good pure souls upon 
the earth. 

But though Bavaria was all this time peaceful, the rest 
of Germany was in an awful turmoil of blood and fire. 
Lushington longed to bear away with him in his cherishing 
arms Ludmilla as his bride. But it seemed cowardly to her, 
for any love, however holy, in an hour of even possible 
danger to leave her old parents. Lushington besought of 
them to return with him to the security, to the peace 
of an English home. But the Hofrath said of him as a 
Hofrath (a court counsellor), it would be wrong to quit his 
country, so what was to be done ? Lushington, neither, 
whatever his heart urged him to do, could not stay with 
them in Munich, for his grown-up children, his clodhoppers, 
his untaught and unwashed children, were crying out for 



144 MAEGAEET YON EHEENBEEG. 

'liira at home ; and dear little Mrs. Dorothea had found 
;affairs growing too complicated for even her willing brain 
and clever hands to manage. So at last the subject was 
suddenly decided by Signild, who, stepping forth iuto the 
family council, said, in her clear, decided voice, and with her 
■fine eyes dilating as she spoke, — 

" Father, it is right for you to go home to your grown-up 
children, who are calling out for you. It is right for my 
new, dear, pretty mother," — Signild, be it observed, had 
from the first moment she learned of the approaching 
marriage of her father insisted upon calling Ludmilla 
mother, — ■" it is right for my new, dear, pretty mother 
;to stay with her father and mother ; it is right for her father 
'to stay with his king. And it is right for Aunt Margaret 
and me to stay here with my dear mother ; for if she is in 
trouble and danger she may want us all the more because 
■you can't stay with her. Aunt Margaret and I shall be in 
no danger; it is right for us to stay, and Aunt Margaret 
*can paint some pictures here this quiet winter to surprise 
you, father, and I can learn so much here ; it is good and 
<right to stay here. — Let us." 

And Lushington agreed with his child, and so did Mar- 
garet ; and thus another winter was spent by Margaret in 
Munich ; and, strange to relate, it was the most blessed 
time she had ever spent there. All was calm and happy, 
and Signild increased both in stature and beauty of soul 
*and body daily. 

With the spring came peace for a time. The cities and 
plains no longer reeked with blood ; and with the blossoms 
of May arrived Lushington, and such a quiet but holy bridal 
as was celebrated hj the noble betrothed lovers was rarely 
ever immortalized by poet's song ; and when the wedded 
pair started upon a tour through the heavenly Tyrol, Mar- 
garet and Signild returned to Flimbsted, to prepare for the 
reception of Signild' s beloved parents. 

But how much did they find prepared for then? reception ! 
A lovely little house was rising in the loveliest part of the 
park, which Mrs. Dorothea, with the greatest glee in her eyes, 
told her was to be Margaret's home, if she only liked it ; 
and if she liked it, she wanted to live with her, and take all 
housekeeping cares from off her shoulders. And what a 





Q/^y^MS/J ^Mvt/, 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. 145 

little home it would be ! erected after the tj^pe of a certain 
house she had particularly admired in Munich, — and the 
most wonderful studios connected with it. Did she like it ? 
never had she dreamed of such a home. But there were yet 
other things prepared by Lushington's exquisite taste and 
love for all the beings dear to him. Until Margaret's own 
house was completed, there was her suite of rooms in the 
old house. Her bed-room was the identical one, with the 
turret-window, she had slept in in her early girlhood ; and 
opening out of it was her temporary painting-room, and in 
it, assembled as by magic, the casts of statues most loved by 
her in Munich ; prints from frescoes and pictures most loved 
by her there, and in the Louvre ; a lovely series of water- 
colour landscapes by our first English artists ; and, hung in 
a recess of the window, a lovely miniature of Margaret's 
mother, painted from a girlish sketch of hers by Margaret 
G-illies, one of our best miniature painters, and a friend of 
Lushington's. He knew she would choose this lady's work, 
rejoicing, as she did, in seeing her sister excel in art. And 
there, too, stood her mother's old harpsichord. 

Signild's rooms were also lovely; and, for a new wife 
and mistress, what beauties, what comforts in the dear old 
home. In the village, also, how things had progressed 
towards completion. How wondrously busy Lushington 
had been. 

"What an arrival in her English home it was to the happy 
bride ! how her eyes swam with blissful tears as the bells, 
pealing from the spire of Elimbsted-little- stone Church, the 
joyous sound swam in delicious gushes across the richly 
wooded dales and slopes of the park, as, — amid waving hats 
and handkerchiefs of the happy villagers, old and young — of 
the children from the schools — of the labourers from the 
fields, all well-washed in the public baths for the occasion, — 
the beloved pair drove to the portal of the old mansion. 
There Margaret, Signild, Dorothea, and behind them Wilmot 
and the other servants, awaited them with tears of joy. 

But the most beautiful moment of the bride's first even- 
ing in her English home was after tea in Margaret's studio, 
when the stars began to glimmer in the green evening sky — 
when the breath of the roses and jasmine faintly diffused 
itself through the lovely quaint room — and when, all silently, 



146 MARGABET YOU" EHRENBEBG- 

sat in a beautiful hush, of joy too deep for words ; and 
Signild, as if feeling the whole sentiment of the hour, rose 
silently, opened the harpsichord, and sent forth to Grod upon 
wings of music an impromptu song of praise, so deep, so 
fervent, that all listening wept, and, had they seen above 
the brow of the inspired child the rose crown of St. Cecilia, 
they would have not been astonished. 






A few words yet remain to be said regarding several of 
our characters. The marvellous Exhibition in the Crystal 
Palace, during the summer of 1851, had united, as if by the 
spell of an enchanter, all our Munich acquaintance. The 
Arab physician also found his way, in his shrouded costume, 
within its walls : in fact, he, being a learned and distin- 
guished man of his country, had been entrusted with the 
care of certain specimens of rare gums and drugs ; and, 
seated among the richly tinted and gorgeous fabrics in the 
Tunis Court, was found one day by Lushington, to his 
surprise and pleasure, gravely discoursing with one of the 
scarlet-fe zed and sallow- visaged guardians of that bazaar of 
wonders. 

The Arab physician, the good gendarme and his little 
Ernest, now upon the point of entering as student at the 
Munich Academy of Arts — and whom also Margaret, who 
accompanied Lushington that day to the Crystal Palace, had 
recognised — were all three carried down to Elimbsted by 
their English friends the day following, where they were 
ready to celebrate the christening of a certain little Margaret 
Ludmilla Lushington. The old Hofrath and his wife were 
there several weeks before them ; and what a happy christ- 
ening it was ! To celebrate it a number of model cottages, 
and a fine library for the village, were thrown open ; and 
there were such rejoicings in the village itself — such tea- 
drinkings of the different schools in the park, and such a 
hearty assembly of pleasant people within old Elimbsted 
Manor, that the christening of Margaret Ludmilla Lush- 
ington remained in the minds of the Arab physician, of the 
gendarme, and of little Ernest, and of various other 



THE ARTIST-WIFE. J47 

foreign visitors, as one of the most beautiful pictures of 
England they had met with in their visit to the Great 
Exhibition. 

Whilst the rejoicings were at their height in the village 
of Elimbsted, and whilst the singing of school-children v/as 
rising fitfully above the plantations, mingled with much 
hurrahing, a carriage covered with dust, in which sat several 
foreigners, stopped to change horses at the little inn of the 
Lushington Arms. One of the ladies, who was constantly 
making use of her lorgnette, was very inquisitive regarding 
these rejoicings, and regarding the family at the hall, re- 
questing a gentleman of the party, who spoke English, to 
make a thousand-and-one inquiries within the space of the 
five minutes of their stay. 

As the carriage dashed out of the village it encountered 
three pedestrians, also like the carriage-people foreigners, 
on a tour through England. These figures were rather pe- 
culiar in their pedestrian costume, wearing netted pouches 
adorned with deep fringe slung around them; and one 
meagre little man, who seemed ever to emulate the stride 
and action of the tallest and burliest of his companions, 
wore a green Tyrolese hat. They also were very inquisitive 
about the festivities ; and hearing the name, were still more 
profuse in their questions from the landlord regarding the 
family, and whether " the lady " were not a Grerman. Lud- 
milla's marriage had made a great talk throughout the good 
gossiping city of Munich, where Lushington had been mag- 
nified into a prince. Thus no wonder that Schneider, 
Kleider, and little Lamm, were inquisitive aboutthe " family," 
when suddenly and unexpectedly they found themselves 
amid the scenes of its greatness. 

Of Xavier I can only say, that a gentleman just returned 
from tropical South America brought word that very day of 
the christening, to the Hofrath von Rosenthal, that he had 
encountered a young countryman of his, who, accompanied 
by a Erench physician, had been for above two years pur- 
suing botanical researches in those regions with extraordi- 
nary success : that these travellers had entrusted him with 
some most valuable specimens of plants they had discovered ; 
and that these plants having been laid by him, at their 



148 



MARGARET VON EHRENBERG. 



request, before some of the first medical men in Paris and 
London, had been pronounced to possess marvellous heal- 
ing qualities. He spoke also with enthusiasm of their col- 
lections of drawings and dried specimens. 

Margaret von Ehrenberg, we may be sure, was at no loss 
to divine in these two adventurers her old friend Xavier and 
Monsieur le Docteur. 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 



CHAPTEE I. 

JAMES MELDEUM AMONG THE METHODISTS. 

James Meldetjm was a labourer : he was of the race of 
labourers : he might also be said to be of the variety 
labourer ; for there are as complete and contrasting varieties 
established by long habit in the human race as in any of 
the inferior animals. A cart-horse is not more distinct from 
a racer, than a regular hereditary clodpole from a fine 
gentleman ; circumstances have made them both physically 
and intellectually. "What a mere piece of agricultural ma- 
chinery is the labourer in many rural districts ! from age to 
age his line has descended on the same spot, doing the same 
things, and knowing them only. Of all the great move- 
ments and events of the world beyond his parish he knows 
nothing. To plough and sow, to reap and mow, to wash 
sheep in summer, and thrash corn in winter ; to clean 
ditches and plash hedges ; to eat, drink, and sleep ; so the 
world goes round, and he goes round with it, like any other 
natural fixture of the scene, tree, stone, or pasturing cattle. 
He is truly of the earth— earthy. 

Such is the labourer in many a thoroughly farming obscure 
place. Prom age to age " nobody has cared for his soul." True, 
there may be a church in the parish, or there may not. In 
many a great corn-growing parish there is no such thing, 
but where there is, and the labourer gets to it, it is to take 
a good sound nod, rather than to hear the sermon. Nothing 
but the stimulus of the open air can keep him awake. 



150 TUB MELDETJM FAMILY. 

But this is the creature of the wold and the wild. In 
other agricultural parishes, the weekly attendance at church 
and chapel, the parish and the Sunday school, and the news- 
paper read at the barber's shop or the village inn, have sent 
some light into the darkness : enough, at least, to let the 
labourer know that he is a wretched creature. Ay, well 
may this class talk of the good old times. There were good 
old times for them. It is no fable. Times when each had 
his old-fashioned thatched cottage, his garden, his pigstye, 
and if, as often was the case, on the edge of a common, his 
cow. Those were the times for the labourer. His mind, 
indeed, did not stretch beyond his own neighbourhood, nor 
had it need ; there lay all that he required in life — peace, 
plenty, and contentment. He worked hard, and he fed well. 
He paid to his club against sickness and old age, and for the 
rest life itself was an enjoyment that filled his whole living 
horizon. In the quietness and freshness of the country his 
days sped on not without their humble pleasures. In the 
old-fashioned equality of the village society he was at ease. 
The squire, if squire there were, was too far aloft to trouble 
his thoughts. But the parson had a friendly word for him 
when they met, and the former was a sort of old patriarch 
that was respected, but yet familiarly addressed. At his 
table they sat at sheep-shearing, at harvest-time, and 
amid Christmas jollities. 

Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, 
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale. 

Such were the days, — of days long past I sing, 
When pride gave place to mirth without a sting j 
Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore 
To violate the feelings of the poor ; 
To leave them distanced in the maddening race, 
Where'er refinement shows its hated face : 
Nor causeless hatred ; — 'tis the peasant's curse, 
That hourly makes his wretched station worse 5 
Destroys life's intercourse ; the social plan, 
That rank to rank cements as man to man ; 
Wealth flows around him, fashion lordly reigns ; 
Yet poverty is his, and mental pains. 

Methinks I hear the mourner thus impart, 
The stifled murmurs of a wounded heart : — 

" Whence come3 this change, ungracious, irksome, cold ? 
Whence the new grandeur that mine eyes behold ? 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 151 

The widening distance which I daily see ? 
Has wealth done this ? — then wealth's a foe to me ; 
Foe to our rights ; that leaves a powerful few, 
The paths of emulation to pursue : — 
For emulation stoops to us no more ; 
The hope of humble industry is o'er. 
The blameless hope, the cheering sweet j)resage 
Of future comforts for declining age. 
Can my sons share from this paternal hand 
The profits with the labours of the land ? 
No, though indulgent Heaven its blessings deigns 
Where's the small farm to suit my scanty means ? 
Content, the poet sings, with us resides, 
In lowly cots like mine the damsel bides ; 
And will be there, in raptured visions tell, 
That 3weet Content with Want can never dwell, 
# # # # # 

Bloomfield. 

Such was the condition of things in the days of B-obert 
Bloomfield. Such was it in our own. We remember the 
retreating glimpses of it. "We have seen poor men happy 
at the farmer's table ; we have seen them happy in the 
farmer's fields. Nature and the society of their old friends 
were full of joy to them. The labourer, banking up his 
fences in the early spring, felt nature at his heart as he saw 
the growing bud, and smelt the delicious violet. In the 
green-growing corn, with the lark carolling in the blue 
bright sky above him, he weeded out the golden charlock, 
and with his neighbours chatted and joked over the past and 
present life of the village. The hay-field, the harvest-field, 
they were as gladsome as any poet has described them. 
But in James Meldrum's days, " the Peasant's Curse," as 
Bloomfield calls it, had fallen considerably over the country. 
Squires were grown into lords, and had became far grander 
than were their own fathers. Farmers were grown squires, 
and little farms had vanished. The commons too had 
vanished ; and the clearing system had commenced, by which 
cottages gradually disappeared, and villages dwindled into a 
few scattered cottages, and large farms, and large parks, 
presented a melancholy stateliness. Where it was not so 
easy to clear off the population, Union workhouses raised 
their new-fangled heads, and filled the hearts of the pea- 
santry with new-fangled wonder and alarm. 



152 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

Things, however, were far from having come to the worst, 
and there were, here and there, parishes that to a certain 
degree had escaped the rapid progress of the modern 
plague of aristocratism — a deadly spirit, glittering and cold 
as polished silver ; insinuating itself into every grade, from 
the peer to the pedlar. 

Beecup, the village in which James Meldrum lived, lay 
about seven miles and a half from the pretty town of 
Beading. Here was he born, and here he had lived all his 
life, as his ancestors had done before him. The village lay 
scattered around a considerable green, which could hardly be 
called a common, — it was too small, yet allowing a fine 
breathing space amid the woodlands, which stretched for 
miles around it. A deep, clear, but somewhat sluggish 
river flowed not far from the village, and a hall built in the 
last century, but rarely inhabited by its possessor, gave 
character to the otherwise flat scenery. 

Meldrum had an old thatched cottage and a good large 
garden at the edge of the green, and at the time we begin 
to take notice of him was about fifty years of age, and 
reckoned a very well-to-do man. He worked for a farmer 
not a quarter of a mile from his own home, and earned 
twelve shillings a week. True, this was not a sum to con- 
stitute a very well-to-do man, but James Meldrum had, 
what is called, a very notable wife. A quiet, tall, thin, but 
sensible plodding woman was Mrs. Meldrum, and she not 
only helped her husband and the three children, a girl and 
two boys, fast growing up, to keep the garden in order in 
the evenings after they came from work, but she kept a little 
shop. The boys, too, were employed to drive the plough, 
and the like, and added to the family income. The Mel- 
drums were a well-to-do family. 

The squire, we have said, came rarely to the hall. In 
fact, he was a minor, and had been at distant schools and 
aniversities, and now was on his travels abroad. There was 
a talk of* his coming, on his return, to live at the hall, but 
that time was not yet arrived. The steward was an old 
gentleman farmer, who had been steward to his father, and 
though he had gradually advanced rents was by no means 
rigid or extortionate. The clergyman was also an old man, 
who duly preached on Sunday, and on week days was 




s>£#/Z^mJ tyU7?7l& 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 353 

seldom seen, for he was a great botanist, and was never so 
happy as when rambling over the distant heaths, and 
through the woods. Things went on pretty easily at 
Beecup. 

Nay, the Methodists, who were then on the look-out for 
all neglected localities, had found their way into Beecup, 
and soon won three-fourths of the people. They had an old 
barn converted into a chapel. One or two of the farmers, 
who secretly grumbled at the tithes paid to the vicar, were 
favourable to them, and said it was quite right that while 
the old clergyman only troubled himself to gather weeds 
and such-like rubbish, somebody should look after the poor 
people's souls. There was wanting a Sunday school in the 
village, and the Methodists had one in their chapel. So 
things went on smoothly. The old vicar never troubled 
himself about either chapel or school. He was just as kind 
and friendly to those who went to the chapel as to those who 
came to the church, when he saw them at all. The steward 
never troubled himself about any one, so that they paid their 
rents, kept up their fences, did not run out their lands, or 
meddle with the game. 

James Meldrum was a Methodist ; he was a class-leader 
amongst them. In his youth he had been a wild young 
fellow, as wildness goes in such places. He had been asso- 
ciated with a knot of the wildest young fellows in the place. 
Had been a great frequenter of wakes, fairs, and dancing 
parties. There was no face better known at the public- 
house than his, and in all matches of boxing, wrestling, 
foot races, cricket, nine-pins, and the like, he was most 
active. Twice he had enlisted when not very sober at 
" The Statutes," but had been bought off by a collection 
amongst his comrades ; and there were whisperings of certain 
exploits in which he had a hand, which, if well proved, 
would have giren the law a rough hold of him. 

When the Methodists first came into Beecup, Meldrum 
had been one of a set who took a particular delight in an- 
noying and disturbing them. All those country tricks and 
plots which were so commonly played off on the Methodists 
were played off here, and Meldrum was one of the ring- 
leaders of them. On one occasion, squibs and crackers were 
laid, and so connected with a train of gunpowder, that when 



154 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

all the people were down on their knees in earnest and 
Vociferous prayers in the evening, these were sent off; and 
bouncing and banging in the faces of the astonished wor- 
shippers, produced the most excessive alarm and outcries, to 
the infinite delight of the rogues without. On another 
occasion, by means of a key made by the blacksmith's ap- 
prentice, they had, on a Saturday night, introduced a pig 
into the pulpit, which being enormously fed by them at the 
time, had slept as soundly as a top till the^moment that the 
preacher was about to enter the pulpit, when, roused by the 
coming in of the people, it had pricked up its ears, and 
astonished the audience by several mysterious grunts, and 
was not discovered till the unlucky preacher, ascending the 
pulpit steps, and opening the door, it rushed out between 
his legs, and both pig and terrified minister rolled down the 
stairs together, amid the mingled uproar of affright, indig- 
nation, and laughter, from the ungodly conspirators, most 
scandalous to the place and occasion. 

At another time they had scattered snuff all over the 
floor ; so that, as the people moved about, and especially as 
they knelt down to pray, it was stirred up by the clothes, 
especially the women's, and there was nothing but an 
universal sneezing, that wholly spoiled the meeting, though 
the persecuted people stood it out like martyrs. Another 
time, when the old woman opened the doors of the chapel, at 
the last minute for the Sunday morning service, behold 
there was not a seat left in the place, and the people had to 
stand the whole time, these young fellows having carried 
them out, and sunk them with stones in the neighbouring 
Loddon. 

But for all these pranks young Meldrum paid a severe 
penalty. On one occasion, when he had gone to scoff, he 
remained to pray. The preacher drew such a picture of the 
state of such as himself, was such a lively geographer of 
certain regions of retribution with all their burning brim- 
stone rocks, and fiery serpents, and fiends, much more 
familiar than agreeable, that James Meldrum was terrified 
and thunderstruck at the certainty of his own damnation. 
It was in vain that he attempted to drown his fear in drink, 
or to laugh it off. It followed him into the field at his 
work, and wrung from him an almost bloody perspiration. 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 155 

It haunted him at night, so that he dared not go out after 
dark, and in his dreams, till he awoke in the most terrible 
alarm. His health forsook him, he trembled as with an 
ague, and the same impulsive temperament which had made 
him foremost in these disgraceful doings now drove him to 
desperation. He had rushed out one night, spite of his 
former terror, and hurried down to the river's bank. There, 
at a moment when, at the bottom of a deep and hollow 
lane, he reached the river, and was about to fling himself into 
its gloomy flood, a voice close to him cried " Halt !" a strong 
grasp was laid on his arm, and he saw the features of the 
well-known Methodist minister, examining him with a sharp 
and searching sternness. He saw him as clearly as if it was 
day, though it was pitch dark, for a fire seemed to blaze 
over them from his own heated brain. 

" Meldrum ! is that you ?" exclaimed the preacher. 
" What ! has the devil then got such hold of you as to drive 
you to a destruction like this ? What ! was he not sure 
enough of you, to let you run on a while longer in doing 
his work, but he must have you leap at once into hell ? 
No ! he was not sure enough of you if he gave you time, for 
he knows God's long-suffering, and that he would, one day 
or another, snatch you as a brand from the burning. And 
he'll do it ! It is for this that he has sent me to meet you at 
this moment, though I only thought I was going to visit 
and pray by a poor sick brother in your village. The Lord 
be praised for his mercies !" 

At this unexpected encounter and address, Mel drum's 
knees failed ; he sank down upon them before the preacher, 
and in an agony implored him to tell him " if there were 
any hope for him, if Grod could forgive such a dreadful 
sinner." " Can he ?" said the preacher, " what can he not 
do ? What does he not do every day ? What did he send 
his Beloved Son to this wicked world for, but to seek and to 
save all that were lost ? Bise, young man, and go with me 
to the village. Grod is still stronger than the devil. He 
can, and he no doubt will, save thee, or he had not sent me 
just in the nick of time. His ways are merciful." 

Meldrum walked back, listening to the words of the very 
man whom he had insulted by putting the pig into the pulpit, 
and had tried to alarm, by making hideous groans as he went, 



156 THE MELDRUM EA.MILT. 

after a late meeting at night, through tne woods, close to this 
spot. He thought that such a wretch as himself could never 
expect salvation ; but the preacher told him that it only the 
more clearly showed God's favour and mercy, and added to 
his glory. In short, within a week, Meldrum was down on 
his knees, in the middle of the chapel floor, confessing all 
his sins and follies in the midst of the people he had ridiculed 
and persecuted, and who now kept ejaculating aloud, 
" "Wonderful ! Christ Jesus be praised ! Amen ! Another 
brand plucked from the burning ! O, thou lover of souls, we 
magnify thy name !" &c. &c. 

" The great conversion of James Meldrum the scoffer " 
was soon sounded through the Methodist meetings far and 
wide. It figured in the magazine — it became the burthen of 
a tract ; and Meldrum himself, as zealous in religion as he 
had been against it, gradually rose to be a leader among 
these people. Nor was this accomplished without a full re- 
payment of the persecution he had inflicted. He had it now 
himself from his former comrades. He had it in the most 
pitiless ridicule, in the most irritating insults ; in the names 
of soeak and coward, and saint and hypocrite, when he came 
near them. In the village street he had continually to run 
the gauntlet of their gibes, and sometimes of their rough 
attacks. They knocked off his hat — asked him to preach 
them a sermon, imitating the manner and tone of the Metho- 
dist preachers, — would come out of the ale-house, and put a 
tankard to his mouth, saying, " Off with that sanctified, 
cantified mask, Meldrum I You once could be merry enough. 
Come, drink man, and be yourself again V At other times 
they would challenge him to fight, and fetch him a blow to 
exasperate him, and pursue him with the names of coward 
and fool. 

Through all this Meldrum went with the spirit of a 
martyr. He deigned them no word, but kept on his way, as 
well as they would let him, in solemn silence. They tried 
another plan of annoyance. There was a great strong wild 
fellow of the name of Berkhamshire, but who was much better 
known by the name of Big Bow-wow, for his sometimes cry- 
ing bow-wow to the children to frighten them, as he came 
behind them, when half or wholly in his cups. Big Bow- 
wow was one of those men who are to be found everywhere : 



THE 1TELDETTM FAMILY. 157 

of a large handsome person, and endowed with an amount 
of natural wit and talent, that, properly trained and directed, 
would rise to distinction anywhere, but which, lost in some 
obscure scene, and having no early guidance, throw out their 
strength in an exuberant wildness and utter neglect of every 
restraint of conscience or principle, that makes them at once 
the wonder of the ale-house circle, and, indeed, of any one 
who comes to close conversation with them, but whose life is 
one long disorder, and their end ruin. 

Big Bow-wow led a life of utter libertinism. He laughed 
at the restraint of marriage, and made conquest of some of 
the finest women of the neighbourhood. He affected to 
treat the Bible as a mere fable, and had by the end all those 
quibbles and objections which have travelled from the pages 
of Voltaire, Yolney, and that school, into the remotest 
corners of the country, and into the minds of those who never 
could read a line. He loved to puzzle the villagers with the 
question, whether the hen or the egg was made first ; and to 
explain the story of Jonah by representing the ship in which 
he sailed as a public-house with the sign of the Ship, out of 
which he was thrown for not paying his shot, and the whale 
which swallowed him up as another public-house of that sign 
where he drunk three days, and was then vomited up, or cast 
out by the landlord for the same cause. 

"With all his lawlessness and wickedness, Big Bow-wow 
had at the same time a degree of good nature, and a manner, 
that easily won on those that he came near. Falling in, 
therefore, with Meldrum, he affected to listen to his reproofs 
of his loose life, and his warnings, and Meldrum endeavoured 
to persuade him to come to the chapel and begin a new life. 
At this Big Bow-wow only laughed and shook his head for 
some time, but after much entreaty and many conversations 
he at length went, and seemed to be much impressed, grew 
very serious, and went often. The conversion of such a 
reprobate was, of course, a matter of uncommon triumph. 
Big Bow-wow was much caressed, and at length admitted to 
Meldruin's class. "When Meldrum had questioned some of 
the other brethren of the state of their souls, and given them 
suitable advice, the turn came to Big Bow-wow. Amid the 
assumed gravity of that expressive countenance, any one but 
the simple and enthusiastic James Meldrum might have seen 



158 THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 

the suppressed signs of a mischief that was about to burst 
forth at the first word ; and no sooner did Meldrum congratu- 
late him on seeing him there, and ask him how he felt now 
in his mind, anticipating a hasty glance at his past life, and 
a very song of holy triumph at his present converted state, 
than the incurable wag exclaimed, " Eh, James, what rogues 
thou and I have been ! Eh ! if all that we have done could 
be known, lad : why it would hang us both. Dost thou 
remember it ?" 

" Stop !" cried the terrified Meldrum ; " Stop, brother ! 
so open a confession here is not needful. Enough that thou 
hast repented : all that is now erased out of the book of 
Grod's remembrance." 

" Ah, James ! art thou sure of that ? Hast thou seen the 
book itself? I wish to heaven it may ! But I doubt it. 
Oh ! I doubt it sorely. Dost thou remember that pack- 
man that we — ?" " Stop, stop, man !" reiterated Meldrum, 
with the utmost vehemence : " Stop, I command thee — 
pollute not the ears of the innocent with the crimes and the 
deeds that are repented of. Enough, enough, that they are 
repented of in sackcloth and ashes, — that they are trodden 
on, disdained, and detested." 

" Trodden on, disdained, and detested !" re-echoed Big 
Bow-wow ; " Ay, but never to be washed out of my heart and 

remembrance: Oh! that robbery of that cheating of 

at the fair, that drunken rioting at Oh ! they'll hang us 

both, lad, if they are known, and I must out with them : 1 
must make a clean breast of it." 

Meldrum, pale as a ghost, and endeavouring to drown the 
fellow's voice by as loud remonstrance, clapped his hand on 
Big Bow-wow's mouth, and cried with tones of thunder, 
" Cease, villain ! I command thee cease. It is false. It is a 
vile heap of lies. Bad enough have we been, but when did 
we rob ? when did we cheat ? when did we " 

" Dost thou not remember ?" cried Big Bow-wow, 
delighted at thus having contrived to ridicule Meldrum 
before his class, and his whole face and form seeming to glow 
with the enjoyment of it : " Dost thou not remember ? Then 
I will tell thee." 

But Meldrum at this fresh menace called on his brethren 
to help him to turn this wolf out of the sheepfold : and with 



THE MELDETTM FAMILY. 159 

many a struggle, and still vociferating a stream of crimes as 
committed by Meldrum and himself enough to have muddied 
a huge river, the fellow was pitched into the street, and the 
door closed upon him. 

If the roof of Meldrum's house, in which they were, had 
fallen in, or the floor had rocked and gaped to swallow them 
up, the company could not have been more astonished. A 
silence like that which follows the shock of an earthquake 
followed. The members of the class gazed upon one another 
in wonder, and James Meldrum sank exhausted in a chair. 

The class was broken up for the time — the members 
hurried to depart. " Vile maul" ejaculated Meldrum, as 
reverting mentally to the scene. " Vile man!" echoed the 
departing guests, with an abstraction that left a painful un- 
certainty whether the words applied to Big Bow-wow or to 
the unhappy class-leader. There will never be found a 
slanderer without numbers eager to believe him. The scan- 
dal created by Big Bow-wow took effect. There were some 
of Meldrum's brethren and sisters who were, or affected to 
be, excessively shocked and alarmed at the things laid to 
Meldrum's charge. He was called to a strict account ; there 
were many meetings, many scrutinies, many closettings with 
ministers and class-leaders, and many heartburnings. James 
Meldrum was shorn down as by the blast of an evil power. 
He went about dark in countenance, as it were, withered and 
shrunk up in body, and with a silence of step which pro- 
claimed him a disgraced man. Without, the laughter and 
scorn of the snemy was unbounded. The exploit of Big 
Bow-wow was the theme of every ale-house the country 
round, and Meldrum could be seen nowhere without sarcas- 
tic jokes being flung at him, and the confessions of Big Bow- 
wow being repeated with derision. This persecution followed 
him into the very work-field and the barn, and the evident 
shyness of his religious brethren, and his being reduced 
from a class-leader to an ordinary member, told to the 
world that his enemies' accusations had not fallen without 
effect. 

Time, however, cures many evils, and sets many wrongs 
right, and at the period of our first acquaintance with 
James Meldrum he was once again the leader of his class. 
The preachers, who came from a distance, made his house 



160 THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 

their head quarters. He was steady as time in his work. 
His two sons were out in farm-service in the neighbourhood. 
His wife's shop-keeping seemed to flourish. The members 
of his society seemed to look up to him, and many pleasant 
" love-feasts," and as pleasant tea-drinkings on Sundays and 
holidays at each other's houses, seemed to proclaim that the 
union introduced by religious conviction was the key to the 
true enjoyment of life. 

James Meldrum was at this period a man of a peculiarly 
solemn and silent character. On Sundays, his suit of drab, 
his coat cut short, and with metal buttons ; his drab trowsers, 
and low-crowned broad-brimmed hat, all of which had seen 
some years' wear, gave him an invariable outward stamp. He 
was about the middle size, thin, but with strong bony struc- 
ture. His countenance, somewhat long, was of a deep ruddy 
hue, and his dark eyes, set between shaggy dark eyebrows, 
gave an expression of a certain melancholy enthusiasm to the 
whole face, which, indeed, was truly indicative of his tempera- 
ment. He was a man of keen sensitive feelings, which in 
their time had been deeply tried, and the slander and perse- 
cution which he had experienced from various sides had 
tended to throw him more and more exclusively into the 
bosom of his religious society, and especially so of the sec- 
tion belonging to his own immediate neighbourhood. He 
seemed to brood over things which never found expression ; 
and yet there was a fire of feeling within him which could 
soon flame up and show strong signs of its power, though it 
rarely blazed out to the day. It was only in moments of 
religious excitement that this came forth ; and in some of 
the private prayer-meetings of this body his fits of enthusiasm 
amounted to something at times like phrensy, and he would 
betray by his language that the slanders which had been 
heaped on him had sunk deeply, and, though they might be 
forgiven, never could be forgotten. 



CHArTEE II. 

MR. WOODCEOET MEADOWLANDS INTRODUCES A CHANGE AT BEECUP ; 
HOW THIS AEFECTS THE MELDBUMS. 

The time was now come which was to make a severe 
change in his circumstances. Great God ! how fearful is 
that condition of society in which the will of one man can 
change the fortunes of thousands of Thy immortal creatures ! 
in which one man's fiat can uproot quiet and happy homes ; 
can cause houses to vanish like mushrooms ; can depopulate 
and demoralize ; can send honest and reposing beings on a 
downward career of distress, exasperation, crime, and ruin. 
And all this destruction of happiness and virtue perpetrated 
in the name of law and right, and on the avowed claim to 
do what they like with their own ! 

Great God ! millions of thy creatures are perpetually 
appearing before Thy throne to demand peace for themselves 
and pity for their children: they cry — "We went to the 
earth which thou hast made, and hast given for the place of 
our trial, and there was no place for us. There are those 
who call thine own their own ; they hold what they cannot 
use ; they hoard up what they cannot eat ; they have closed 
the earth against those whom thou sendest thither to 
possess it for a time, and to do Thy will. Lord, how long ? 
how long ? 

And Christ says, — "Did they give you a cup of cold 
water in my name ?" and they reply, — " They gave 
us fire." 

" Ye were naked : did they clothe you ?" " No." 
" Te were an hungered : . did they feed you ?" " No." 
"Ye were sick, and in prison: did they visit you?" 
And the reply is one vast " No !" that rolls through heaven, 
and is answered on earth by — revolution. 

Let us return to our story. The heir to the estate at 
Beecup, the proprietor of the whole parish, had now finished 
his education, made his tour, and come home. His educa- 

ii 



162 THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 

tion and his survey of other countries, of course, had been 
accomplished with the object of making him a finished 
gentleman, and so wise and enlightened as to be able to 
manage his property to the best advantage, and to fill his 
responsible situation in the best manner for his own good 
and the good of his country. "We say of course, because 
what other object ought education, and travel, which is but 
a part of it, to have ? A man who has an extraordinary 
slice of his couutry is bound in all reason to do correspond- 
ing service to his countrv. Let us see how this young man 
did it. 

Some of those simple souls who are always expecting 
to see the world move on, and people get better and wiser 
every &&y, expected great things from this Mr. "Wood- 
croft Meadowlands. So much had been spent in his 
education, really much must come of it. Then people have 
a natural notion of the generosity and liberality of youth. 
Golden youth ! as poets call it, is always expected to be 
something more brilliant and good than the old rusty iron 
that went before it. But the mischief of it is, that this 
golden youth, in nine cases out of ten, turns out to be only 
gilt, and the gilt wears off dreadfully fast in the jostling path 
of ordinary life. Grolden youth in a very few years shows 
the old and rusty iron most provokingly peeping through. 
But don't let us condemn Mr. "Woodcroft Meadowlands 
before we have seen him r. very likely he may turn out 
better than the bargain — one of those ancient phoenixes 
that have been missing a wretchedly long time. 

And to say truth, Mr. "Woodcroft Meadowlands had been 
too well educated to change readily. He had, as a little 
boy, a tutor, the Rev. Sharpe Lookout, who told him that 
he would be a very great man when he grew up, and have 
three good church livings to give away. Mr. Sharpe Look- 
out therefore seized the very earliest opportunity of 
instilling a benevolent and grateful disposition into his 
pupil. " Remember, my dear boy, when you come to your 
estate, all that I have done for you : show yourself grateful 
for my indefatigable endeavours to please you in every 
possible way." And Mr. Sharpe Lookout had done it : he 
had indulged the golden youth's every idle propensity of 
playing tricks on the servants, shooting at the farmers' 






THE MELDBTJM PA MILT. 163 

pigeons, tormenting young birds and squirrels, and the like : 
he had promised him wonders if he could only be his private 
tutor at Oxford, and travel with him. 

Under such able and indulgent hands Mr. Meadowlands 
would no doubt have thriven into something amazing ; but 
old Meadowlands once caught his son wiping his slate with 
his finest wig, which had just been brought in newly dressed 
by the valet, and Sharpe Lookout, who was not remember- 
ing the qualities of his name circumspectly enough, laughing 
at the joke with all his might. This old Meadowlands 
observed through the open window on the lawn, which he 
had approached to ask Lookout and his son to take a walk 
with him down to the dog-kennels. Amazed and confounded, 
the old squire stood stock-still, screened by the mass of cur- 
tains at the side of the open window, and saw further. 
Young Meadowlands having wiped his slate, as stated, threw 
the wig on the floor of the drawing-room, amid the convulsive 
laughter of Lookout, and then rung the bell ; and, on the 
valet appearing, said, with well-feigned astonishment, " See, 
Tom, what the Italian grey-hound has done : he has pulled 
the wig off the table and mauled it pretty nicely, as you 
may see. "What will the old governor say to you, eh ?" 

At the sight of the wig, and expectation of the old 
governor's wrath, the enraged valet gave the unsuspecting 
dog a kick which might have broken his ribs ; and at the 

same moment a tremendous "D d scoundrel!" was 

vociferated from the open window, which fell like a thunder- 
clap into the room. In less than ten minutes Mr. Sharpe 
Lookout was on the road to seek another tutorship, and 
young MeadoAvlands was in a few weeks packed off to 
Eton. 

At this school he found himself amongst a crowd of gentle- 
men's sons, all preparing for the University, and for fitting 
themselves to profit as much as possible by one another and 
the nation. There were elder sons and younger sons. The 
elder sons were all soon taught to look upon themselves as 
peculiar people — people who have a great figure to cut in 
the world with great estates, and to make the fortunes of 
younger sons with church-livings and state offices. Of course 
all the glories of tuft-hunting and aristocratic emulation 
were soon comprehended and commenced here. The whole 



164 THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 

tribe looked on themselves as born to run a race, the elder 
ones in rivalry in style and fashion, the younger in getting all 
they could of the good things that the elder ones and the na- 
tion had to bestow. As to the people — the great mass of the 
nation — of them they knew and cared nothing ; they never 
had come near such a vulgar race ; they never were likely to, 
except at elections. The Plebs — what were they to our 
golden youths ! They were educated for the good of the 
country ; just in that sense which the imperfect English of 
George XL's German mistresses expressed when surrounded 
by the infuriated mob, — " Grood people, why are you so 
angry with us ? we are come for all your goods !" To which 
an unfeeling ragamuffin replied, — " Ay, curse you, and all 
our chattels too !" 

Mr. Woodcroft Meadowlands had enjoyed all the advan- 
tages of this admirable education, after which he had 
travelled. 

And now Mr. Meadowlands arrived at the hall ; a fine, 
tall, gentlemanly man. He was seen riding over the lands 
with the old steward ; and then he was seen riding over 
them again with a stranger. Mr. Meadowlands disappeared 
after this for a time, but the stranger reappeared with 
several assistants, and they were observed with consterna- 
tion by the farmers. They were those creatures of the 
human hawk tribe, termed surveyors. 

It was imagined that Mr. Meadowlands had grown 
enormously rich by the accumulations of his long minority, 
but those who thought so did not know the extravagancies 
of the golden youth of this age, nor had much knowledge of 
what goes on in the great national manufactories of the 
states-stewards. Mr. Meadowlands raised all his rents 
thirty per cent. Most of the leases, luckily for him, had 
rim out. The old farmers, terrified at the advance, threw 
up their farms, and new ones flocked into them. The old 
steward retired, and a new lawyer-steward took his place. 
Hawks began to abound at Beecup. 

"With the new tenants came new machinery ; and it was 
soon found that to pay the thirty per cent, advance in rent, 
thirty per cent, of human labour must be dispensed with, 
accordingly there were numerous dismissals of labourers and 
aervant-men. There were drills and tedding-machines, and 






THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 1G5 

steam thrashing-machines, as busy as possible, saying as 
plainly as machinery can, " Good-bye to you, old labourers 
and hired men — you may retire." But whither were they 
to retire ? In other parishes there were proprietors who 
had been to the same schools, made the same travels abroad, 
and the same advances at home. It was found out that 
men and women were rathar nuisances in the country. 
They were told to withdraw, and seek work in the towns. 
Yery good — but then, they were not accustomed to the 
work of towns. There are no turnips to hoe on the town 
pavements, nor crops to rear in the greenest squares. 

The squire got married: he married an earl's daughter, 
and it was only fitting that he should keep up as much 
state as his wife had been used to. There were gay doings 
at the Hall, and the driving about of abundance of fine 
carriages and fine people. What a vast improvement there 
was ! The parish before only maintained very common, poor, 
drudging people ; now it abounded with very rich and grand 
people indeed. 

The squire began to make other improvements. There 
was found to be a very idle population. It was quite right 
that it should disperse, and seek employment where it was 
to be found. The Methodists were forbidden to come into 
the village ; their barn was taken away by the new farmer, 
and the squire issued orders that they should not hold any 
meetings in the parish. They met, therefore, on Sundays, 
in the open air, on a common just beyond the boundaries. 
This was insolent and contumacious. The steward attended 
this meeting with a gamekeeper, and from him learned the 
names of such labourers as were present. Every one of 
these was the next week dismissed by the farmer who had 
employed them ; they had notice to quit their cottages, and 
the green was soon improved by several of them being 
pulled down, and the ground thrown into the next field. 

But there was now found to be a number of families out 
of work, who demanded to be maintained by the parish ; 
they were told that the parish had joined the neighbouring 
Union, and there they must go if they wanted relief. Not 
liking this proposal, these families dispersed through the 
country, and some got work, and some starved and came to 
the Union at last. 



1G6 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

Amongst the families marked for expulsion wae that of 
James Meldrum ; he had contumaciously attended the 
Methodist meetings to the last. But it happened that 
Meldrum' s employer was almost the only farmer who had 
remained of the old set. He had got three years of his 
lease to run, and had escaped the advance. He was a man 
of the old sturdy school, and looked with indignation at the 
squandering of his old friends and neighbours, and for that 
very reason determined to stand his own ground to the last. 
Meldrum' s cottage was on his farm, and, therefore, it still 
stood, and Meldrum was still employed, spite of religious 
doggedness. 

But if the blow did not reach him one way it did another. 
His shop was ruined ! The bulk of the poor people were 
expelled from the parish, and the farmers supplied them- 
selves at market. They dared not purchase at his shop, if 
they had been so inclined. They dared not even sell 
Mrs. Meldrum an egg, or a pound of butter. There was an 
end of the shop. 

But that was not all. Job and Sampson, the two sons, 
who had been in service on one of the farms, were dismissed, 
and after seeking employment in vain all round the coun- 
try, went off to Beading to seek it there. Dinah, the 
daughter, was in the same predicament. She lost her place, 
and went to seek one in Beading. 

From day to day did these young people go to and fro, 
but for some time in vain, and at night returned home to 
lodge ; it was a melancholy meeting of parents and children. 
The profits of the shop were gone — the wages and support 
of the young people were gone ; it began to press hard 
on the Meldrums. What made it harder to bear was, that 
all their religious friends and comforts were banished. There 
was no meeting, no love-feast, no class as before ; they were 
solitary, and would be glad to be away if they knew where 
to go. At length the two sons got employment in Beading, 
one with a butcher, and the other in the stables of an inn ; 
and Dinah soon after took service with a milliner, as servant 
of all work. This was a relief, but the ruin of her shop, the 
dispersion of her religious friends, to whom Mrs. Meldrum 
was extremely attached, had made an impression on her 
mind that nothing seemed to remove. She sunk into a deer* 



THE MELDUXJM FAMILY. 167 

listless melancholy, and at length shut up the shop to which 
nobody came, and, as if her life depended on it, sunk rapidly 
in strength, and in a few months died. 

Here, then, was James Meldrum left alone in his house. 
For a man of a sanguine, moody, brooding temperament, 
like his, it was enough to have turned his brain. But this 
catastrophe was spared him by his employer. " Meldrum," 
said he, " you have no occasion for that house and garden, 
it is much too large for you, and I want it for my waggoner, 
whose cottage must come down, as it is not on my farm ; 1 
am sorry, but you must look out." 

Meldrum looked out, but he could find no place where 
any one could, or dared if he could, give him a lodging. He 
too was obliged to retire to Reading. Here he was not so 
lucky as his children ; work for him was not to be found. 
There were scores of labourers and their families driven out 
of the country to seek refuge in the town, and every job in 
the place was engaged by younger hands. His old employer 
had said to him, " I'll still give you work, Meldrum, if you 
can't get it elsewhere, because you've worked for me so 
long." So behold James Meldrum now established in 
lodgings in Reading, with his two sons, and daily marching, 
in his fifty-seventh year, seven miles and-a-half to his 
labour, and back again ; that is, fifteen miles per day, or 
ninety miles per week of walking, besides his daily labour. 

Thus, then, were James Meldrum and his children 
thoroughly disinherited from their ancient place of abode, 
their old homestead, their old field of labour and livleihood, 
by the progress of modern social-economy. The depopu- 
lating policy had taken eifect in Beecup, and reduced the 
amount of human labour to the most exact minimum, Mel- 
drum, it was true, had still the offer of work form his old 
employer the farmer, but it was at the cost of walking ninety 
miles a week, besides doing his ordinary day's labour. To 
Meldrum it appeared at his age, fifty-seven, to be impossible. 
He therefore thanked his old master, and told him he would 
endeavour to get a job at or nearer to Reading. Behold 
him, therefore, in Eeading. Here his son Job was with a 
butcher, his son Sampson assistant hostler at an inn's stables, 
and Dinah, who had been maid of all work at a milliner's, 
was now keeping her brother's house, and doing plain sew 



1G8 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

ing for her old mistress. Mel drum found his children were 
all therefore employed, and more or less paid for their work. 
The sons had fifteen shillings each, and the daughter could, 
besides cooking their meals, earn, by hard exertion, three 
shillings a week. Thirty-three shillings for three, and now 
there would be the wages of four, that was a paradise, com- 
pared to what scores of other labourers were undergoing. 
The Meldrums had two rooms in an upper story, in one of 
which the father and sons slept, and the daughter in the other, 
that in which they lived. For these two rooms they gave four 
shillings a week, or within two shillings often guineas a year ! 
.For their house and garden at Beecup they had paid thirty 
shillings ! This new home, however, was in a low, narrow, 
and damp street, of which the drainage was bad, and in which 
the number of poor and dirty people crowded together was 
excessive. Many labourers there were who had no other 
resource but their own wages ; those wages, for which they 
had, besides their labour, to walk their five, ten, and even 
twelve miles a day, were about seven shillings a week. It 
is true that they could apply to the parish for additional 
assistance, and many did so apply, but in every case it was 
refused. They were told that if they could not get work 
they must come into the Union. To this many preferred 
any suffering. Others, who said they would come in, were 
cross-questioned as to where they had been last working. 
Application was made to their old employers, and when it 
was found that they were still willing to give the same 
employment, though at eight or ten miles distant, the 
labourers were told to go there, and were refused an 
entrance to the Union. 

Ey these means numbers of these rural families were here 
subsisting on six and seven shillings a week. The conse- 
quence was, that they were compelled to herd — that is the 
only term for it — together in the most dismal crowds, and 
under the most demoralizing circumstances, in the worst 
houses of the worst lanes and alleys of the town. Here 
there were throngs huddled together in the most dismal 
condition of filth and wretchedness, lodging in the same 
apartments, and diffusing from one to another the most 
desolating principles and habits. The children ranged the 
country with matches, and such pretences of merchandize. 






THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 169 

but merely to beg and steal. The young women were ex- 
posed to the- worst influences, and led to the worst crimes. 
The mothers, steeped in wretchedness, resorted to the gin- 
shop, and became, instead of comforts, miserable examples 
to their families. 

But what are we talking of ? — Families ! They had no 
families. They belonged only to the herd of human out- 
casts, where all family comfort, privacy, or domestic feeling 
were annihilated by the necessity of herding with the mass 
of festering penury and vice — the out-sweepings of society 
— the common dunghill of mankind. 

Compared with these, theMeldrums found a princely home. 
Two rooms to themselves, at four shillings per week, and three- 
and-thirty shillings coming in. But Meldrum could obtain 
nothing to do. His sons tried, and he spent a week in try- 
ing, first the town and then the country round : it was all 
in vain. Every hole in the fox-and-goose-board of life was 
supplied with its peg. James Meldrum could not bear to 
be idle and live on the earnings of his children ; he there- 
fore once more turned his steps to Beecup, and implored 
work of his old master. He was brought to bear the idea 
of twelve hours' labour per day, and five hours' walking to it, 
that is seventeen hours' labour per day, for nine shillings 
a-week. He had a home, that was something ; with his 
children, that was more ; and with the assistance of their 
earnings that was more still. He just had a peep into some 
of the human hovels near his own lodgings, and that gave him 
a shock that made his own hardships real luxuries. He 
was humbled not a step or two, but a whole flight of steps : 
he was a sadder, if not a wiser man. 

"Well, James Meldrum asked work of his old master 
again. " Oddsbobs ! James," said the old farmer, " I've 
filled up thy place, man. What's to be done ?" 

But luckily the harvest was coming on ; extra hands 
would be wanted, and so James might come : still, he was 
told that such was the scarcity of work that wages were 
dropped, and he could not give him above seven shillings 
a-week, and ninety miles to walk for it ! James shook his 
head : what was the English labourer come to ! But there 
was no help ; he had tried everywhere else ; he had seen 
some sights in the town; — and he accepted it. 



170 THE MELDKUM EAMILT. 

Behold James Meldrum, then, walking off every morning 
to his day's work. Two hours and a half it required to reach 
Beecup, for his limbs were stiff with rheumatism, with being 
exposed to wet and cold out at his labour : he was obliged, 
therefore, to start at half-past four o'clock in the morning, 
in order to be on the ground at seven : he did not leave till 
seven, and often later, and therefore was not home till half- 
past nine or ten at night : tired as a dog, he got his supper 
and went to bed to be up at four, allowing six hours for 
sleep. See the old man in his smock frock and ankle boots 
stiffly stalking along the way in the morning, his thin and 
sombre face wearing an air of deep malancholy: see him 
sitting under a hedge, eating his dinner of bread with a 
bottle of water to drink. You may imagine that many a 
sad and bitter thought passed through his mind, in such 
moments, of all his past enjoyments at Beecup ; his good, 
kind wife, his happy children, his friends, and Methodist 
affairs. Many a deep groan did these memories bring up 
when no one was near ; and a child that was once looking 
between the bars of a gate, as he sat at his dinner, and heard 
him thus groan, was dreadfully frightened ; but still more 
when she saw him darw his knife across his throat as if he 
would kill himself, but then shake his head and mutter 
something to himself. 

But these, after all, were golden days compared with those 
of some of his fellow-labourers, or those which were to come : 
the weather was still fine, the days tolerably long. As he 
came in the morning the dew hung on the leaves and the 
birds sang : the sun came up laughing broadly, as if he 
knew no care, and therefore thought everybody ought to be 
merry. Through the heart of James Meldrum these in- 
fluences found a way, but it was as a sheep finds its way 
through a wood, leaving all its wool behind it on the thorns. 
He felt that the world ought to be happy, but he knew that 
it did not make him so : he groaned, and went on. 

Still the days were fine, the roads dry ; there was at 
home a supper and rest : but the harvest went over ; the 
days grew short, the weather became rainy, the roads foul. 
He went in the dark and returned in the dark : he began 
to find, too, that his frame was exhausted : he grew slow in 
his work, and would often drop asleep over it : on more 



THE MELDEUM EAMILT. l7l 

than one occasion his master had found him in this con- 
dition — not laid down, but actually standing propped on his 
spade or fork, and sleeping. 

" This won't do, James !" said the farmer, and shook his 
head. The next thing would be dismissal. Meldrum was 
alarmed at this, and thought if he could only get rid of going 
every day home, it would save his strength. But where was 
he to lodge ? Out of his wages he could not afford it. He 
at length asked leave to sleep on the hay in the stable 
chamber^ and it was allowed. Here with a horsecloth or two 
thrown over him he lay, without putting off his clothes ; got 
some milk to his bread from the farm-house ior breakfast, 
and dined on bread and cheese ; once a- week only he we at 
home, and had a Sunday's wash and shave : but this plan did 
not answer. His rheumatism grew intolerably with this 
mode of life. Never sleeping in a bed, never shifting his 
clothes except once a week ; he was chilly, sluggish, and 
racked with pains all over him. He was compelled to re- 
sume his old walk daily to and fro. Through darkness and 
rain, and storm, and dirt, did he, night and morning, plod 
his slow and weary way, and often went to his work for the 
day wet through. No wonder that the farmer began to say 
that he thought it would be a kindness to him to dismiss 
him — absolutely refuse him employment, and let him get 
parish relief. Against this, however, poor Meldrum begged 
hard : and so it wore on. 

But, in the meantime, matters at home were undergoing 
a rapid and fatal change. Since the time of quitting Beecup 
there had been an end of attendance at the Methodist meet- 
ings. Meldrum himself was too much tired and worn out 
to go to any meeting : on Sunday he sat and slept ; and his 
sons treated the idea of going to chapel with contempt : they 
were grown, what are called amongst their class, jolly fellows ; 
they protested that the Methodists had never cared for any- 
thing but what they could get out of them. The ministers, 
since their misfortune, had never come near them. " No," 
said these youths, " we have no snug beds and snug suppers 
to offer them." They seldom, he found, came home to dinner, 
but dined at a public-house near where they worked, with 
a number of their own kind. They brought, of course, 
little money home, and often appeared pretty full of liquor 



172 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 



when they came at night : that was often late, sometimes 
not at all. They were evidently grown wild fellows, — Mel- 
drum heard it said so. But when he ventured to talk to 
them, they cut him off short with " Stuff, father ! we mean 
to enjoy life while we can. What good does any humdrum 
religion, and the like, do anyone ? Has it done us or you 
any good, eh ? It is all stuff and nonsense ; nobody of any 
seDse believes it now. It is only invented to keep poor 
folks quiet." 

If poor Meldrum was shocked, it was of no use : he only 
sighed, and became more close and quiet than ever. 

On the other hand, Dinah continued to dress very gaily, 
and was as off-hand in her defence of it as her brothers ; she 
was resolved to " live while she could," as she called it. 
Often when James came home at night he found Dinah 
reading. Sometimes her brothers were in, and she read 
aloud ; but what they read he scarcely knew, for he became 
so drowsy on entering the house, that he could but just 
keep his eyes open while he got his supper, and then fell 
asleep in his chair. Then, as he woke up, he would often 
hear the same humming tone of one reading, and would 
catch a sentence or two of what appeared some " high-flown 
tale," as he rubbed his eyes and staggered off to bed. 

But one Sunday he saw a quantity of those cheap publica- 
tions, with which the little bookshops abound, lying about, 
and he took up first one and then another, and read. They 
were stories of the most inflated and extravagant kind, of 
lords and ladies, and thieves, and people with the most ro- 
mantic names and startling actions imaginable : murder, 
seduction, contempt of everything sacred, crime and dissipa- 
tion of every possible kind, were dressed up in a fashion 
which would disgust and shock the refined and the virtuous, 
but which only stimulated the mind already debased. 
" Yarney the Yampire, or the Feast of Blood ;" " The 
Murder at the Old Ferry ;" " The Hangman's Daughter ;" 
" The Illuminated Dagger ;" " Prince Morio and the Eair 
Vatilde ;" " Seduction ;" " The Love Child ;" " The "Wife's 
Tragedy;" "Mantel;" "The Ordeal by Touch;" "The 
.Rivals, or the Spectre of the Hall ;" " The Old House of 
West Street ;" &c, &c, and numbers of the like relations, 
all illustrated by engravings of the most atrocious character, 






THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 173 

were the staple of this literature which is poured in myriads 
of sheets on the devoted heads of the poor and ignorant. 
To these were added cheap reprints of infidel writers, in 
which religion was represented as a mere state invention to 
feed priests and frighten people into submission. There 
were halfpenny " murder sheets," detailing all the most 
revolting murders as they every week occurred, and every 
species of vileness, villany, and horror, in pennyworths and 
half-pennyworths. 

What was the effect on the mind of Meldrum ? At one 
time he would have taken the whole mass of pollution and 
thrust it into the fire ; but James Meldrum did not do so 
now. Eor a moment he appeared surprised ; then stunned ; 
then he took up another and another, and a new and wild 
appetite seemed to seize on him : strange and dark thoughts 
had passed through the mind of James Meldrum as he 
plodded along the road to and from his labour, in wind, and 
rain, and darkness. Strange and dark thoughts — darker 
than the night, stronger than the wind, more chilling than 
the rain — not only passed through his mind, but remained 
in it, and brooded there like evil spirits that had found a 
roomy and congenial home. He went back over all his life : 
he saw how everything that was dear to him, and which had 
been taught him as sacred, had been trodden on by the 
powerful : he had prayed to Grod daily, hourly, at noon and 
at midnight — and he had been taught that prayer would be 
heard : he had read the declaration of the Psalmist, that 
" He never saw the righteous forsaken, nor His seed begging 
bread:" he had hung on the assurance that "the tender 
mercies of Grod were over all his works ;" " that he who 
sought should find ; who asked, should have given to him ; who 
knocked, to him it should be opened." And he had believed, 
had hoped, had trusted, had sought, had asked, had knocked, 
and, as it seemed to hiin, in vain. The mighty of the earth 
had arisen and broken up his home and his place of rest ; 
had dispersed his friends, and driven himself forth ; had 
broken his wife's heart, and led his children into temptation 
and, he feared, crime. What had been done to him had 
been done, and was doing, to thousands. Oppression 
abounded and was prosperous. Men called on God, and 
there appeared no answer. Luxury and unfeeling haughti- 



174 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

ness increased on the one hand, and poverty, and crime, and 
despair on the other. Christ had said, — " Woe to him that 
grinds the face of the poor ;" but the Government passed a 
poor-law, whose every principle was to grind their faces to 
the bone, and make their poverty bitter to them. There 
was an enormous machinery for religion, costing the nation 
ten millions a-year, and its only production appeared to be 
archbishops and bishops in palaces and fine carriages, and 
curates in poverty and threadbare coats. The loving and 
tender, the soothing and inviting, the equalizing and frater- 
nizing tone of the religion of Christ, was not the tone of 
this national religion. There appeared in church and state, 
in all ranks and classes, one huge mockery abroad : and 
beneath this crushing thought the simple brain of poor 
Meldrum gave way, and was filled through and through 
with the deadliest despair. 

To this tone of mind the compositions which he now laid 
his hands upon were like fire thrown into stubble. A dread- 
ful truth seemed every moment to acquire a more appalling 
evidence : and that truth was, that the world, Grod, and 
Christianity, were a dream and a delusion, i He was told 
there how many of the finest intellects had arrived at this 
conclusion, and bade to look round the world and on all its 
doings, and see whether they did not confirm it. Poor 
Meldrum had looked round there too long, and his own ex- 
perience gave a force to these baneful writings, that made 
him start up in an agony and plunge into the darkness of 
the night. It was, as we have said, Sunday : the lights were 
bright in the Methodist chapel as he passed down the street, 
and he hurried on with the feeling in his soul that the 
people there assembled were but the poor dupes of a flatter- 
ing, fair, but groundless faith. 

He rushed on past chapel and church, and burning wayside 
gaslight, into the pitch darkness of the country. A tem- 
pest w T as without, and a still worse tempest within. ]N o 
man, not the most miserable, gives up the hope of immor- 
tality and the faith in G-od, in heaven, and the eternal reality 
of love, without a pang that rends the very foundations of 
his nature. It is the first and most cruel death, to which 
the second death is but an opiate stupor, a dull and drugged 
sleep. 



THE MELDETJM TAMIL T. I/O 

And who are they who inflict this living death ? "Who 
are they who are the real disseminators of infidelity and 
atheism on earth ? They are the false priests who establish 
a false religion, and give it the name of the true. They are 
the false law-givers who establish laws in opposition to the 
nature, attributes, and revelations of God, and teach God's 
sanction for them. They are the wealthy, who profess faith 
in the religion of brotherly love, and, rolling in luxury, dis- 
dain the miseries of the poor. They are the proud, whose 
life and prosperity are a deadly lie to the simple souls who 
read that God is no respecter of persons. They are un- 
natural brothers, who read their Bibles at breakfast, and go 
duly to church and chapel, and yet would not stretch out a 
little finger to save the sons of their own mother from 
destruction. They are all those who, professing to believe 
in Holy "Writ and holy life, who, denouncing the irreligious, 
the destruction of established order, are themselves dead to 
every genuine impulse of Christian love, and barren of 
every thought and action that diminishes the sufferings and 
extends the knowledge and comforts of their fellow-men. 
These are the true orjj^gMors of infidelity and atheism. In 
vain would men T ^ m3B femeak against the truth of the 
Gospel and the i nnmlraSMBf man, if the utter opposition 
of the spirit and lives : o*rJthese men to the sacred faith that 
they profess did not instil into the minds of the simple a 
deadly seed of doubt, and their oppressors crush it into their 
souls with the ponderous roller of contempt. 

Meldrum rushed on. The drenching rain fell. He felt 
it not. The lightning cut vividly across his path, the 
thunder roared and growled in heaven ; but the awe which 
these things had once inspired had ceased ; he regarded 
them but as the blind play of blind and undirected elements. 
They were to him emptied of their terrors — for they could 
only kill him, and he desired only to die and sleep. 

In the midst of the deluge and the darkness there came 
a roar of terrene thunder. There was the glare of dazzling 
lights, the clatter of scores of iron wheels, and the next 
minute Meldrum saw the carriages of the comfortable rush 
past, and the pomp of science — like a hurricane in the midst 
otv^he hurricane — flash by and leave the darkness ail to 
himself. 



176 THE MELDRTTM FAMILY. 

The sense of the immense diversity of the fates of men 
tell on the labourer who stood on the highway the victim of 
devouring self-contempt, aiid he muttered to himself, — "And 
these proud works, too, and they who made them, and they 
who thus enjoy them, are but dust !" For that night did 
Meldrum hasten on over field and moorland — careless of 
everything but to flee from the agony which wrung his 
sensitive soul, pondering on the means of putting out 
this spark of life, which was, according to his new doctrine, 
but a momentary spark, giving the otherwise insensible 
dust a capacity for intolerable suffering. But as the day 
dawned, the fierceness of the paroxysm passed away. He sank 
exhausted on the ground, and after a heavy sleep awoke 
low and laden with despair. He turned his steps in the 
direction of the scene of his daily labour, and there toiled 
out his allotted hours. 

From that day Meldrum was another man. The new 
faith had expelled the old. He regarded himself but as the 
work of chance, and the only object in life worth consider- 
ing, how he was to get through it with the least discomfort 
to himself. Every principle which is based on the self- 
respect of the believing soul was gone ; every ennobling 
sentiment was extinguished. Amongst the many atoms on 
earth to steer his own atomic organization as clearly along 
as possible, was his soul's sole aim. He was gloomier, 
more reserved than ever, and he devoured the fatal litera- 
ture which he had now become acquainted with as he 
swallowed the glass of gin to give to the hour its cordial and 
absorbing stimulant. 

Miserable, yet mechanically, Meldrum still trudged on 
duly to his daily work. He performed his ninety miles per 
week ; his seventeen hours per day of labour for his seven 
shillings — because he had yet no other resource ; but his 
mind was busy at work during the time that he walked and 
the time that he wielded the flail, on means to come at the 
necessary sum more easily. All the old restraints of con- 
science, of respect to law and property, were gone. What, 
said he to himself, hath G-od or man done for him ? Was 
he not as wretched as he could be ? What was property 
but a means of keeping him out of what he needed ? He 
recognized no Grod, and, therefore, he could recognize no 



THE MELDB.UM FAMILY. 177 

law. There was poaching, and there was theft. They were 
disgraceful, — that was the cunning effect of cunning maxims 
fixed on society, — they were punishable. Could he be worse 
punished than he was ? He wished to quit his present 
enormous labour, and find some easier way to all he needed. 
His master prevented him, by saying that for the rest of the 
winter he should not again need him. He set out home- 
wards on the Saturday night without a prospect of a day's 
labour for four months to come ; but he vowed within bim, 
self to work no more. 

The world was all before him where to choose j 
Necessity his guide. 



» 



CHAPTEE III. 

A MIDNIGHT GATHEEING WHICH BEINGS MELDETTM ACQUAINTED WITH 
BATES AND CAPTAIN CEICK. 

In tie course of the following week there was to be held 
one of those meetings of the peasantry which at one time 
reported in the newspapers made so deep an impression on 
the public mind. It was at some eighteen miles distance, 
but Meldrum had nothing else to do, and he resolved to be 
there. 

The day arrived, and Meldrum set out across the country 
to attend this gathering of the rural agitators. It was 
towards the end of November, and the weather was as 
gloomy as Meldrum' s own mind. The meeting was to be 
held on a moorland equidistant from several farming villages, 
and at eight o'clock, so as to allow of such as had work 
arriving after their day's labour. "When Meldrum came 
upon t'he scene of action it was, of course, and had been 
long, pitch dark. His steps were, however, directed by the 
light of a fire which flickered on the dense mass of vapour 
in the sky, and was spread on it as on the roof of an oven. As 
he came on the brow of a hill he beheld below him that it 
proceeded from no fire, but from a number of torches, 
which blazed and flared in the wind, and the murmur of 
many voices struck upon his ear. This told him that a 
crowd was already collected, and he quickened his steps lest 
he should be too late to witness the whole of the pro- 
ceedings. 

Drawing near he could perceive a dense crowd of people 
and various groups on its outskirts, who appeared all ear- 
nestly in discourse, so that he comprehended that no public 
speaking was yet going on. Every moment the scene and 
place assumed a more strange and wild aspect. The place 
was a deep hollow at the bottom of the moor, where a stream 
of some size ran across the highway, and "where the highway 
itself became hemmed in between dense woods. The 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 179 

spot seemed to have been chosen for its lying so as to attract 
by its lights as little notice as possible, and for the advan- 
tage of a lofty bank running on the side of the road under 
the edge of the wood, from which the speakers could address 
the throng. This throng now amounted to at least five or 
six hundred, and was every minute augmented by fresh 
numbers pouring in on all sides. "With some of these Mel- 
drum joined the skirts of the crowd, and was at once struck 
with the aspect of wretchedness which distinguished it. He 
had been accustomed to see the labouring classes of the 
country together at wakes, fairs, and statutes ; but on these 
occasions they had come with good clothes on their backs 
and money in their pockets, and ready for a certain enjoy- 
ment of a gaiety clumsy enough but genuine. But such a 
thing as gaiety in a crowd like this would have looked 
frightful, for it would have been unnatural. Here were 
young men, with old, lean, though weather-beaten faces, 
and old men whose feeble limbs hardly bore them, though 
there was a fire in their eyes which showed that they had a 
keen feeling of the sufferings whose stress had thus brought 
out these rural toilers to complain of and to consult on their 
wrongs. There were women stillmorefamine-wastedand worn, 
and not a few who bore along with them in their arms their 
infants, though their exhausted bosoms gav T e no means of 
stilling the cries of these melancholy little creatures — pil- 
grims through a world which received them at its entrance 
to an uncomprehended misery. There was many a huge 
and burly fellow who, well fed, would have vied with Hercules 
himself in clearing out the Augean or any other stable, and 
there were growing lads in whose meagre faces you looked 
in vain for the country freshness of former days. Every 
hand was supplied with a good sturdy cudgel, for the double 
purpose of walking-sticks and weapons of defence and 
offence if any danger arose. Their long frocks hid many a 
ragged garment, but poverty sat on every form and feature ; 
and the women, who had not one common over-costume, like 
the men, showed the deplorableness of their penury still 
more. Their garments were thin and flimsy cottons, not 
the good old stuffs and flannels and quilted petticoats of their 
mothers' days. The spirit of English neatness seemed to 
have vanished with their better fortunes, and rent stockings 



180 THE MELDTITJM FAMILY. 

pulled on awry, and slipshod, and loose, and often toeless 
shoes, were everywhere to be seen. Some of these women 
sat on the damp ground, and endeavoured to rock their 
babies in their arms, while they listened to the relations of 
the troubles of the rest, or screeched out their own amid the 
deafening winds and the smoke of the torches. Meldrum 
could hear everywhere thewords, "Starvation "Wages," "Board 
of Guardians," "Union Workhouses," " Overseers with hearts 
of stone," and " Being sold up for rent." The murmur of the 
multitude became every moment louder — there was one gene- 
ral noise of undistinguishable tongues, amidst which the shrill 
voices of women rose here and there above the rest, and finally 
an impatience displayed itself for proceeding to business. 

It was evident that the leaders were in the centre of the 
dense mass, where some discussion was going on which 
seemed to excite an eager attention. Voices began to re- 
sound here and there, calling out — " Begin ! begin !" The 
shouts became louder and louder. There was a movement 
of the crowd near the wood-side, and presently a man was 
seen cutting out rude steps in the bank, up which he was 
followed by two or three other men, while a number rushed 
up on either side to this elevation, where it was more easy 
of access. 

At this sight a deafening shout was raised by the throng ; 
and before it had subsided, a countryman in the centre of 
the group waved his hat to command attention. This was soon 
given him. The crowd became as silent as the grave, and 
the countryman addressed them. Before he could do this, 
however, some in the crowd said, " That's Button of Scrim- 
ton !" "Who's he?" was the reply. "Why, Button the 
shop-keeper. He has made what he has by the poor man, 
and now he is not like a many, he is not ashamed to stand 
by him." "Bravo, Button! Bravo, Button!" resounded 
far and wide, and ended in a loud hurra. 

The person thus described and thus hailed was a middle- 
sized man, in dark clothes of a country cut. He appeared 
fifty years of age, somewhat bow-legged, and stooping in 
the shoulders, which were broad and strong, and his counte- 
nance, with the hair combed straight over his forehead, had 
an expression of much homely shrewdness, and a twinkle in 
the eye which spoke rather of a close and knowing character 



THE MELD RUM EAMILT. ] 81 

than of that open frankness which you would have expected 
to see in a man who came forward as the advocate of the 
oppressed. But Button of Scrimton was a man who had 
made his way by hard plodding and rigid saving. He 
had a hard hand, — a hard though just mode of dealing. It 
was by no professions of greater liberality than others that 
he had won the confidence of the labourers and their fami- 
lies, but it was by boldly pronouncing his opinions of their 
ill-usage, while he refused to let them run into his debt. 
He would divide and subdivide to a farthing' s-worth and 
half-farthing's- worth his articles, but would not credit. 
" It is no use," — he would say — " pretending to trust you, 
neighbours, to-day, what I know you cannot pay to-morrow. 
Tou have just so much a week and no more, and if you ex- 
ceed that you have no means of paying it. It's hard enough, 
I confess ; but it would be harder still if I were to trust, 
for it would ruin me and not help you, and you might have 
some one in my place that would use you worse." 

The poor people knew this was only too true, and they 
put confidence in Button the shop-keeper, because he was 
ready to assist them any time by his counsels ; and even in 
their moments of direst distress or illness would do a kind- 
ness that showed all the more in one of his dry and ad- 
hesive character. They had got him to come forward on 
this occasion as their chairman, and he did it all the more 
as he had no aristocratic customers to depend upon, no 
landlord to fear. He lived on his own small property. 

The chair which Amos Button was to occupy was no 
other than a large stone, which with some difficulty had 
been hoisted on this bank. But now he stood and addressed 
the crowd in a homely style of oratory. He told them that 
he need not say what had called them together there, — it 
was their necessities. He need not describe what they 
were, — they all knew them but too well, they all felt them 
too keenly, and he could see them written but too plainly 
on their faces. Well, they were come to talk their grievances 
over, to tell one another their own tales of misery, and 
to consider whether there was any way of mending their 
condition. Before he stated what he considered the true 
remedy he would first hear what they had to say themselves. 

On this he called first one and then another forward, 



182 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

who had no doubt been selected during the previous dis- 
cussion in the crowd. "We need not follow these speakers 
in their details. They were such as some time ago were 
given us in newspapers ; but the sight of the speakers 
themselves was the most eloquent. There were men, and 
women too, who stepped forward, whose haggard and half- 
clad persons raised in the crowd groans and murmurs of 
astonishment. They described their few shillings a week — 
the vain attempt to purchase with them half enough to eat, 
or to clothe themselves with. The men spoke of going to 
work hungry, and working with a ravenous craving and a 
sickening faintness upon them ; the women as suffering the 
same famine at home amid their craving children; their 
sufferings in the winter from cold, especially at night, having 
nothing in them and little on them, of their children sinking 
at the breast for utter want, and of consumption sweeping 
off the growing. 

The appearance of the speakers was but too terribly cor- 
roborative of the truth of their statements ; and any one 
standing on that elevation and casting his eyes over that 
crowd, now not less than a thousand in number, would have 
imagined that he saw not an assembly of human creatures, 
but of wailing and ghostly apparitions. The wind swept 
the torch-flames over their heads, and snatched away the 
volumes of black smoke, and their eyes gleamed with the 
glazy keenness of famine, as their faces were all fixed on the 
speaker at the moment. 

As Meldrum had listened to the different speeches, and 
seen the different speakers each stamped with the unmis- 
takeable characters of want and despair, he had pressed 
nearer and ever nearer ; and at once he sprang upon the 
rude steps cut by the labourer's spade in the bank, and 
presented himself to the crowd. .Nobody knew him ; and 
the chairman was about to speak to him, — probably to tell 
him that some one eke was before him, — but a single glance 
at Meldrum seemed to take from him the power of utterance. 
He gazed at him in evident wonder ,and curiosity, and the 
crowd by a universal movement seemed to partake of the 
feeling. Meldrum' s features bore traces of the intense 
mental suffering he had lately undergone. His old drab 
suit, which had figured at many a Methodist meeting, un- 



THE MELDETTM FAMILY. 183 

hidden by the labourer's frock, marked him out conspicuously 
from those about him, — but still more the dark fire that 
burned in his deep-set eyes, and the strong enthusiasm 
which was visible in every feature. He had felt, as he had 
listened, all his passion for public speaking come upon him. 
It seemed to him that nothing but the language of a soul 
so wrung and tortured as his was, could reach the root of 
the woe * that the labouring population was enduring, and 
rouse them to some action that would strike terror into 
their oppressors. 

" Neighbours and fellow sufferers !" he cried. " Who are 
you?" resounded at once from a stentorian voice in the 
crowd. 

" "Who am I ? A stranger to you, but not a stranger to 
the evils you endure. "Who am I ? That matters not. 
What I am that I will tell you. I am a man who began 
life with the resolve to honour G-od and the King, to live 
honestly by my labour, and die with the consciousness of 
having not only helped myself but my neighbour, wherever 
I could." 

" Bravo, old boy ! go on !" shouted the same stentorian 
voice ; and a clamour of applause followed from all sides. 

" But," added Meldrum, " what man can live honestly in 
this country ?" (Hear, hear ! True, true !) " What man, 
I mean a working, man, can live at all ?" (Hear, hear !) 

" Never did a man labour more hardly than I have 
laboured, — but like a thousand others of our class I have 
been expelled from my daily labour — my house pulled 
down — my family scattered to the winds — my wife thrust 
into her grave — myself flung an outcast into the unfeeling 
world." (Murmurs, groans, and indignation in the crowd. 
A woman's voice, " Poor man ! he's gone through Jordan, like 
the rest of us.") 

"But, my friends," continued Meldrum, growing visibly 
excited, " what boots it to come hither to complain ? Why 
come hither to tell our griefs and our oppressions to the 
Tvoods and forests ? They must be told on the hills and 
housetops. They must be published in the town-streets 
and the market-places, — before the rich and the mighty." 
(Immense sensation, and clamorous outcries.) We must 
make our miseries felt as well as heard of. Tou have met 



J 84 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

before and told one another your sufferings — as if you did not 
know them well enough without ; as if they did not sit in 
your hearts like devils, and twine about your vitals like 
snakes, and sting you in the cries of your children, in their 
fevers and their deaths, like scorpions. They are stamped 
into your frames with the mallets of cruelty. They are 
trodden into your sides by the heels of the rich and well- 
fed. What boots it, then, to complain ? What good does 
it do to meet ?" 

"What good!" screamed a shrill voice from the crowd; 
" it gets into the newspapers ; it gets to the ears of the 
members of parliament, and of everybody." 

Meldrum paused a moment at this remark, and folded his 
arms with a look of ineffable sarcasm, as he slowly, and in a 
deep voice, repeated — " It gets into the newspapers — to the 
ears of members of parliament — to those of everybody ! And 
what better are you for that ? what has this done for you ? 
Of the newspapers it has probably sold some additional 
quires — it has made a nine days' wonder to the reader, and 
it has passed. What then ? ha3 it brought you a tittle of 
alleviation ? has it brought you an additional loaf ? If it 
has, let me see it. Has it induced one farmer or one gentle- 
man to raise your wages one single shilling a week, or drop 
your rents one single shilling a year ? If so, let me hear it. 
Has it induced a single member of parliament to advocate 
your cause?" 

" Yes ; several," cried a voice. 

" Well, several ; and what result ? a nine days' wonder in 
parliament, and a parliamentary result, just — nothing. Has 
the voice of an isolated man of feeling in the house carried it 
to the ears of anybody out of the house — excited anybody to 
regard your sufferings any the more ?" 

Here there was again a violent sensation and conversation 
in the crowd, and many voices crying, " JN"o, no, — it is only 
too true. The man speaks truth !" 

" You still suffer, and suffer unheeded. The press, the 
parliament, the ministers, the Queen, all the wealthy aris- 
tocracy, whose lands you till, and whose tables you supply 
with luxuries — all the wealthy farmers through the United 
Kingdom' — everybody knows your miseries and cares nothing 
for them. You are cared for as much as the rocks and the 



THE MELDStTM FAMILY. 185 

sands of the land you live in. You are cared for less than 
the cattle, because they cannot sell and eat you. You toil* 
and are not paid ; you pine and perish, and see your wives 
and children perish before you, and the world cares nothing 
for you ; and yet you would tell the world once more the 
hopeless tale ! 

" My friends, it is time to act : it is time to speak in the 
only language that the hard-hearted oppressor will listen to. 
You have addressed yourselves to his compassion : he has 
none. You must now address that feeling which he has — 
his fear ! Tillers of the soil ! you live in a land of plenty, 
why not eat ? Men possessed of arms and hands ! why not 
make yourselves respected ? Behold around you, and 
around you from sea to sea stand the halls of the oppressor, 
and the ample ricks of the farmer, and the cattle and the 
sheep of ten thousand pastures. Why, then, languish ? why 
then die ? Up, and kill and eat, and, if need be, fling fire 
into the stores and houses of the oppressor, and strike into 
his soul the terror which is more availing than any suppli- 
cation." 

(Here there was extraordinary confusion. Groans and 
cries of " No, no ! Off with him ! He's an incendiary ! He's a 

spy!") 

" Spy ! — incendiary !" exclaimed Meldrum ; "lama man, 
and not a stone. I am torn with the pincers of cruelty, 
cut to the quick by the knives of the unfeeling. I know 
that they will tell you that this conduct is odious ; but is 
not their conduct odious ? Is it more criminal to seize food, 
and expel your oppressors from the earth by fire, than it is 
for them to deprive you of food, and expel you from the 
earth by famine ? Away with names ! away with cant ! Be 
men, and you shall flourish — be slaves, and perish, as ye 
will, by piecemeal ; waste into the ground as a snow wreath 
wastes." 

But at this point of Meldrum's desperate harangue there 
was a simultaneous movement of many persons towards the 
platform, if so it may be called, the platform of nature's own 
raising; and a person shouted into Meldrum's ear, "Off! 
plunge into the wood or you are lost ! plunge into the 
wood ! the police are upon you — off*!" 

But Meldrum stood firm, and turning his head, said to the 



186 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

person who gave this advice, " No, I am uo coward ! let them 
come ! — let them do their worst !" 

" Off man! I tell you, off! save yourself for the future, 
you are such as are wanted ;" and with this he gave him a 
push towards the wood. Whether the flattery which this 
last sentence contained had its effect we know not, but the 
next moment Meldrum and his unknown adviser were 
plunging through the thickets of the wood with the despera- 
tion of men who flee for their lives. 

Meantime, the police, who had attended in great numbers, 
disguised in labourers' frocks, had drawn their truncheons, and 
pushed vigorously up the bank towards the place where 
Meldrum had been standing, but, before they could reach 
it, he had disappeared. There was a cry of " Seize him ! 
pursue him ! make sure of the incendiary !" And at this 
moment one of the policemen fired a pistol in the air, and at 
the same instant a bugle sounded in the wood near, and a 
troop of cavalry, which had been stationed in ambush, 
galloped forth, and charged on the crowd. 

At this sight there was a wild shrieking and alarm, and 
the multitude began to fly across the waste. In an instant 
every torch was extinguished, and the pitch darkness which 
ensued, — the shrieks of flying women and children, the 
curses of enraged men, and the swearing of the rural 
soldiery, — produced a confusion and a scene of terror incon- 
ceivable. The terror, however, was more in the sound than 
in the reality ; for the Egyptian darkness, and some tremen- 
dous stones from the hands of the most determined of the 
labourer crew, caused the captain of the cavalry to cry a halt, 
and allow the people to take themselves off; which they did 
in a wonderfully quick time through the darkness. 

Meanwhile, Meldrum and his unknown companion, after 
pausing a moment to listen to the shrieks and clamour, the 
galloping of the horse, the ominous sound of the pistol and 
the answering bugle, perceiving the hubbub to subside, 
threaded their way as best they might through the intricacy 
of the wood. This was no easy matter, for the underwood was 
thick, and at every step some briar tore their hands or their 
clothes — some stump caused them to stumble, or some stray 
bough lashed them in their faces. To Meldrum, however, 
this was little, compared to the remorseful anguish which 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 187 

was torturing to his mind. He felt as if he had called on the 
people to rush into the very heart of peril, and then fled 
like a coward. It was not that he had excited them to fire, 
kill, and eat, — for these things, in his now misguided and ex- 
asperated state of mind, he regarded as perfectly justifiable, 
and, in fact, as the only means of compelling attention to 
the dreadful condition of the people, — but the idea of re- 
commending this, and exposing others to its consequences, — 
for, besides his, there was no language used which could ex- 
pose the assembly to the vengeance of the law, and at the 
same moment flying himself, or rather sneaking away, — was 
intolerable. It was in vain that he called to his aid his new 
creed of infidelity ; that he said to himself " we are all mere 
worms, moving pillars of mud ; it matters not, we shall 
writhe out our little portion of torment, and be gone :" it 
was in vain that he asked himself " of what consequence it 
was whether he had acted well or ill, creditably or shame- 
fully ; that the fact could not be known over many miles, or 
remembered many days ; that a man like him was lost in 
the obscurity of the crowd ; and when he slept in his grave 
it was of no importance what had happened to him in his un- 
easy dream of existence?" Over all this sophistry of self- 
contempt, through all this logic of annihilation, rose that 
still small voice of God which cares nothing for systems of 
belief and unbelief, but, fixed in the eternal roots of the 
heart, as in the magnificent machinery of the universe, asserts 
our immortality in spite of ourselves, and maintains the in- 
destructible reality of virtue, truth, and honour. 

Meldrum went silently in the track of his companion, who 
ploughed his way through the densest masses of brushwood, 
and over bogs and ditches, till they struck into an open 
riding, which led them to a gate on the opposite side of the 
wood to which they had entered. Here the stranger said in 
a low voice, " Aha ! now I perceive where we are :" and ad- 
vancing cautiously he crossed the gate to reconnoitre, and 
then telling Meldrum all was right, they struck across the 
country over hedge and ditch for a full mile, when they 
came out upon a highway. 

All here appeared as still and deserted as possible. Not a 
straggler from the agricultural meeting, nor a policeman, 



188 THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 

was to be seen or heard. The stranger began to stalk on at 
a good round rate. 

" Is this the way to Reading ?" demanded Meldrum. 
" To Reading !" replied the man : " Grod forbid ! would you 
run into the lion's mouth ? in that direction the Philistines 
are sure to be swarming It would be impossible to enter 
the town before morning without being stopped and recon- 
noitered by the police, who will have been informed of what 
has passed on the common yonder, by that cursed, devil's 
invention, the telegraph. No ; we must make for safer and 
more obscure quarters. Come along !" Meldrum felt a re- 
pugnance to connect himself with a man of whom he 
knew nothing, and who might, for aught he could tell, be a 
spy ready to give him up for a reward. "But the assurance 
of the fellow, that he could do as he pleased, but for himself 
he should lose no time in running to earth, at length deter- 
mined Meldrum to follow, and away they hastened. Presently 
they turned out of the highway to the right into a narrow 
country lane, and after following this for some time, and 
then crossing several downs, they descended into a valley, 
and halted before a row of what appeared to Meldrum, in the 
obscurity of the early morning, very miserable houses. Here 
the stranger flung a handful of sand at an upper window : 
the casement was presently opened, and a rough masculine 
voice demanded who was there. 

'" Bates, and a friend !" was the reply. The window closed, 
the door soon afterwards opened, and Meldrum found him- 
self in what appeared to be a public-house of none of the 
nicest aspect, and admitted by a man of almost gigantic 
build, with immense black whiskers, and with an eye that 
scrutinized Meldrum so keenly that it seemed to lay his 
very heart bare before him. His huge person, clad only in 
shirt and trowsers, appeared more colossal in its dimensions 
than it even was, and his nightcap covering his bushy head 
of jetty hair made his coal-black whiskers the more striking. 
"All snug, Bates, I reckon ?" said the landlord. 
" I should think so, old fellow !" replied Bates — for such 
was his name here at least — " but it will be snugger still 
when we have seen some supper and a good jorum of heavy 
wet." 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 1 89 

" Breakfast, you mean, Joe," replied the landlord, as he 
thrust his bare feet into his shoes, which stood just under 
the oven, where he had pulled them off on going to bed, and 
proceeded to get out some bread, cold meat, and knives 
and plates. 

While the two arrivers got their supper, the landlord, who 
had fixed himself opposite to Meldrum, and scrutinized his 
outward man very attentively, after first throwing an iron- 
ing blanket round himself, enquired where they had come 
from that evening, and received from Bates a circumstantial 
account of all that had taken place. As he related Meldrum's 
part in the business, the huge man cast still more searching 
glances at him, and, ejaculating only " The devil !" the 
three severally retired to their night's quarters. 

This place, to which Meldrum's guide had conducted him, 
was not deserving the name of a village, nor of a hamlet, 
but rather of a rookery. It consisted of two rows of houses, 
one on each side of the road, facing each other. They were 
of a very ordinary description, erected without the slightest 
regard to the picturesque, being all of one height, and as 
plain and bald as architecture, or the want of it, could make 
them. They had evidently been at one time the speculation 
of some very prosaic soul ; and why he should have set them 
down just here, where there was no apparent occasion for 
them, would require perhaps to call their proprietor up 
from the dead to inform us of. Around were naked downs, 
only traversed by a few shepherds, not one of whom took 
up his abode here. These two rows of mean houses, staring 
at each other externally, as if in wonder at their own loca- 
tion, were impressed with the most palpable marks of 
poverty and rudeness. The windows were broken, and the 
missing panes supplied by old rags or hat crowns, or were 
pasted up with dirty paper. Before the doors were ash- 
heaps, and other accumulations of nuisance. There were 
children of a dirty exterior to be seen playing in the street, 
if so it might be called, and the whole denoted that the 
inhabitants were of a low stamp. In fact, for the last two 
hundred years Twigg's Houses had been the notorious 
resort of thieves, tramps, wandering potters, and still more 
nondescript population. 

In the centre of one of the rows stood a public-house, 



190 THE MELDRTJM FAMILY. 

bearing no resemblance to village ale-houses in general, but 
rather to a London gin-shop. This was the abode of the 
proprietor of the whole — no other than the large- whiskered 
landlord, who admitted over-night Bates and Meldrum. 
This landlord and proprietor was well known by the name 
of Captain Crick. There was a mystery about the man, and 
an unquestionable cleverness. He came here ten years ago. 
Twigg's Houses were at that time almost deserted. The 
owner had absconded for debt. The creditor, whoever he 
was, for he did not appear to be the mortgagee, had found 
so much trouble in collecting his black-mail from the 
nomadic population, as to give up the task in despair. The 
thieves, beggars, tramps, potters, and the like, came and 
went at leisure. The public-house only was held by the 
cred tor, and retained as a sort of security for his debt. 
Here the carriers of calves, fowls, eggs, butter, and such 
commodities, halted for the night, on their journey from the 
lower country towards London, and this kept up a consider- 
able trade in cheap beds, beer, suppers, and hay and stable- 
room. 

In this state of things Captain Crick one day arrived at 
the Inn, and staid there some days. He professed to be 
retiring from the sea-faring line of business, and to want to 
settle in a thoroughly country retirement. This place 
seemed to have peculiar charms for him — there is no ac- 
counting for tastes — and he very soon installed himself 
as master of the inn, and it was speedily rumoured that he 
had made out the retreat of the proprietor, and had purchased 
the premises. In fact, very soon Mrs. Crick made her ap- 
pearance, and took upon herself the duties of landlady. 
Mrs. Crick was a woman of dimensions almost as Herculean 
as those of her husband. She was a handsome commanding 
woman, of that class which pretends to be nothing but what 
they are — fine animals of the human species — enjoying life 
in all the ordinary elements of life : having their own way 
very much, and exercising a strong will over all around them. 
Mrs. Crick took the whole management of the house, and 
Captain Crick of the rest of the houses. In her own sphere 
she ruled paramount — the Captain never appeared to wish 
even to interfere with her sway, and she on her part never 
interfered with that of the Captain. In his absence she. 



THE MELDET7M PA1IILT. 131 

collected the rents, but never pretended to know anything 
about the affairs of the property. 

This system had its conveniences : for Twigg's Houses, 

as we have said, were notorious all over the country for the 

character of their population, and were therefore not unfre- 

quently honoured with the visits of police and constables, 

and sheriffs' officers. It was said, that not only were the 

people thieves, but that Captain Crick himself was the grand 

receiver of all their stolen goods. Many a time had the 

Captain been summoned before magistrates to give an 

account of his tenants when they were charged with thefts, 

and neglect of payment of poor-rates, and the like. But 

on all these occasions the Captain declined placing himself 

in the position either of a censor or patron of his tenants. 

All he knew, he declared, regarding them was, that they 

paid their rents. That was his only concern, and that he 

attended to. If it was a case of poor-rates, he would ask 

the parish authorities before the magistrates, why they did 

not collect their rates as he collected his rents, weekly. He 

protested that he lost little or nothing ; but he could not 

take upon him the parish business to collect the poor-rates, 

or to be guarantee for them. 

" But the tenants are gone off without paying the rates," 
the magistrates would say ; " and therefore you must pay 
them." 

" I beg your worships' pardon," would be the Captain's 
reply ; " but the rates were due when the people were there. 
The officers should have seized on the goods — it is their 
neglect — I have nothing to do with it." 

The Captain knew the law, and stood by it, and it stood 
by him. 

If it were a case of theft, the Captain pleaded ignorance 
— he did not concern himself with any doings of his tenants, 
except the paying of their rent. He never set himself up 
as a critic on the conduct of his neighbours, and he never 
would. Grod knew there was dishonesty and wickedness 
in all ranks, and let Grod himself judge it — he, Captain 
Crick, had enough to do without. 

This the Captain said with peculiar emphasis, and shrugs 
of the shoulders and expressive looks. It was a hopeless 
case, and constables and overseers soon grew tired of bringing 



102 THE MELD BUM FAMILY. 

the Captain to the justice-room only for him to make them 
look very simple, and ignorant of their own business. 

But the Captain was said to be in reality the patron and 
receiver-general of the booty made by his tenants. If this 
were true, then the booty must have been of a kind very 
easily concealed ; for, defeated in all other respects, the 
police had made at least a score of searches by warrant of 
his premises, and invariably with the same success, that of 
finding — nothing. 

On these occasions the Captain was quite polite to 
them, and in his absence Mrs. Crick was equally so — 
saving that she gave them some sly cuts of the tongue, on 
their hunting of mares' nests, and suspicions of their honest 
neighbours, in which the Captain never indulged. 

This had gone on for ten years. Twigg's Houses had 
still the character of a rookery of thieves, and Captain Crick 
of their receiver-general : yet never had the authorities on 
a single occasion been able to fix a charge on the Captain. 
There had been proved to have been some scores of thieves 
tenanting his houses, but then what had the Captain to do 
with that ? It was his misfortune to have houses where it 
was not everybody that wanted them. He repeated it, he 
was no critic on anybody, high or low (this was given with 
a nod and a shrug) — let the police look as sharp after the 
people as he did. 

Now we have been informed, however, though we publish 
it with caution, lest we should bring an unmerited stigma 
on the Captain, and act with less candour and fairness 
towards him than he did to the public — that is, setting our- 
selves up a critics on his conduct — that the Captain had in 
his back court a certain most ingeniously contrived little 
crane and pulley, by which any one in the secret could by 
pulling a bell in a certain place have a basket let down at 
certain hours of nocturnal darkness, in which they could 
deposit anything of value occupying a small space only; 
and that the basket drawn up again would soon afterwards 
descend with a certain sum in it, the exchange for the goods. 
Now we have been informed that by this means a great 
exchange went on between the duly initiated and some 
great unknown. The initiated brought their goods and 
received their money. From whom ? As the Captain would 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 103 

say — Heaven knows ! Neither the Captain nor any one 
else was ever seen in these transactions. There never was a 
living soul who could charge him or any one else with re- 
ceiving stolen goods. He never entered on any occasion 
into any bargain of the kind, or discourse on such subjects. 
The police had looked in this back court, but they never 
found any such crane, — they only found the house well 
supplied with good capacious water-spouts descending from 
the roof. They had examined the house, and never found 
any stolen or suspicious goods. If they were received — 
what became of them ? Let those answer who knew. 

But we have again heard, that out of Captain Crick's 
attics you stepped on his roof, and there found yourself in 
a leaden gutter, between the front roof and the back roof, 
from which rose a wooden stage with steps up to it, from 
whence you could enjoy a splendid view over the country. 
The Captain was fond of a breezy look-out. On this stage, 
however, stood a bench, which, it has been whispered, turned 
upside down, made a little bridge, and this bridge pushed 
across from the gutter of Captain Crick's house to a certain 
window in the end of the next house, — that of the Captain's 
trusty hostler, — gave a ready means of escape for either 
goods or persons ; that in the hostler's attic this bridge again 
became a seat, and gave a speedy access to the Captain's 
roof when needed. 

Now those who are too illiberal to follow the Captain's 
excellent system of not making themselves critics on their 
neighbours, declare, that as the stupid police never dreamed 
of examining at one and the same instant the houses of both 
Captain Crick and his hostler it was by means of this bench, 
which was made 

A double debt to pay, 
A bridge by night, a simple bench by day, 

that the Captain contrived to elude all detection of his 
illicit deeds. So said those who were ungenerous enough 
to be critics. 

Well, for ten years had Captain Crick been lord and 
master of Twigg's Houses, and entertainer of all the carriers 
who, with fine flowery-painted wagons and peals of jingling 
bells, came daily up the country, laden with calves, butter 

o 



19 & THE MEL DRUM EAMILT. 

eggs, cheese, hay, straw, and sundry other commodities out 
of the farming districts, to the railway station, where they 
now unloaded their live stock and more compressible 
articles, and left only the hay and straw bearers to proceed 
to London as in the olden time. These men passed the 
night here, and thus there might be generally seen a throng 
of wagons standing about the public-house at Twigg's 
Houses, and the bleating of calves and lambs was generally 
sonorously heard there. In the tap-room as sonorously 
sounded the voices of these smock-frocked and ankle-booted 
carriers, who thumped their pewter pots on the table before 
them as a sign for the barmaid to replenish them, while they 
sent up clouds of smoke from their pipes. In the midst of 
the settle, Captain Crick would generally be found in earnest 
conversation with them, and at night often amused them 
with the relation of his sea-adventures. "When you saw 
him dressed in his best, with his huge frock-coat, his broad- 
brimmed fierce-looking hat turned up quite briskly at the 
sides, and his enormous black beard, you imagimed that you 
saw some ferocious pirate or smuggler, that had boarded 
many a peaceful merchantman, and would sweep a score of 
such quiet people into the sea, as easily as he swept the 
flies off the table before him, when they came to sip the ale 
spilled by the carriers. But we don't want to be a critic on 
a man who was too magnanimous to be a critic on any one 
else. All we know is, that Captain Crick, ever and anon, 
disappeared on a journey into Cornwall to visit his aged 
mother ! All honour to his filial piety ! 

Well, here were Bates and Meldrum housed. They slept 
in the same room ; and early in the morniug Bates com- 
menced a conversation. He told Meldrum how delighted 
he was to find a man like him, who was prepared to rouse 
the country in the only way it could be roused. That the 
people were too tame, and would all perish of starvation 
without taking any means to help themselves. That Mel« 
drum had hit the right nail on the head — the only way was 
to carry fire through the country, and compel those who had 
property at stake to have things altered, and give decent 
wages. 

Meldrum, who had cooled down a good deal since the 
meeting last night, listened in silence and with strong 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 195 

repugnance to. this counsel, and when Bates had done 
expressed his doubts whether he had not gone too far in his 
speech : that unless the whole of the agricultural people 
were prepared for such a plan, it would bring destruction 
on the few that adopted it, and that he was grieved to think 
scores might be suffering now from his own act last night. 

At this, Bates started up in bed, and casting a furious 
look of astonishment on Meldrum, said — 

" What ! are you a coward ? "What ! are you afraid of 
doing what you have so strongly advised others to do ? The 
devil ! have I been taken in by you ? Are you a pigeon- 
livered milksop, and not the man I took you for ? Did you 
not say that cruelty and injustice, the same cruelty and in- 
justice which was grinding every other working man to 
death, had convinced you that nothing but fire and terror 
would be of any use in getting justice ? Mark me, my man, 
you must speak out ; for I tell you, that either you show 
yourself all right and jammock (bold and honest,) or I will 
be the first to put the bull-dogs on your heels !" 

Meldrum felt that he was committed. He had put him- 
self into the power of a fellow of whom he knew nothing — ; 
and now he must go on, or be denounced at once to the 
law. For a moment a cold shiver went through him, and 
he cursed his folly for going to a meeting, and still more 
for accompanying this man here. But when he came to 
review his situation and his prospects, to reflect that no 
doubt a description of his person would be widely circulated 
amongst the police, and that he was a marked man, he felt 
that there was nothing for him but to give up tamely, or to 
carry out boldly the doctrine he had recommended. He re- 
solved to do the latter, and told his companion so. 

" That's right, my man !" exclaimed Bates. " Then here 
goes for a grand campaign ! We two, who have nothing to 
hope from the people of property, but everything to fear, 
will now make them know what it is to drive honest men to 
despair. They shall either relieve the miseries of the working 
people, or they shall know miseries themselves." 

A bond dreadful and devilish was now entered into by 
these two to destroy and lay waste, regardless of the merits 
or demerits of those on whom they committed their ravages 
— it was in their perverted minds sufficient that fear must 



196 THE MELDBTTM FAMILY. 

do the work which neither ordinary justice nor compassion, 
which neither law nor religion, had done. The icy indiffe- 
rence of the educated and wealthy had produced their natural 
fruits ; wrong and indifference towards them in the victims 
of their system, and the devil entering into the souls of the 
oppressed, made them regard themselves not as evil, but as 
patriots and saviours. 

A mutual enquiry into each other's history here took 
place between the confederate incendiaries. They resolved 
to relate their whole lives to each other. We know the 
story of Meldrum ; let us now hear a few particulars of that 
of Bates. 



CHAPTEB IT. 

BATES' STOET ; AND THE BTTEIAfc BY STEALTH. 

"My name," said the man, "is not Bates, but James 
Jackson. In fact, I have been baptized by necessity with 
half a dozen names. I can boast as many titles as any 
rascally lord. James Jackson, alias Eambling Eoby, alias 
Billy Bullivant, alias Grim Joe, alias Sampson Sly, abas 
Drummer Osborne, alias Joe Bates. If I wer« to tell you 
all the occasions on which I have been christened afresh, it 
would last us a week. Enough ; in different parts of the 
country it would not be safe for a man to have some one of 
these names. 

" "Well, I was born at Bulwell, in Nottinghamshire. Were 
you ever there ?" 

"Never," replied Meldrum ; "never was on that side 
London." 

" "Well, my father was a stockinger ; — almost every body 
are stockingers there. Do you know what that is ?" Mel- 
drum confessed his ignorance. 

" "Well ; a stockinger is a man or woman who makes stock- 
ings on a machine which they call a frame. He weaves 
them like a flat piece of cloth, and they are seamed by the 
women and children. This trade, you would think, must 
be a good one : every body wears stockings. Tou never see 
any body without stockings, except Irish and Scotch ; and 
they only the women. Men wear stockings every where ; 
women don't. I've often wondered wbv ; for women and 
children's feet, one would think, are tenderer than men's 
feet. But never mind that ; every body, except the Irish 
and Scotch women and children, wear stockings. The po- 
pulation is every where increasing, and stockings are only 
made in few districts ; and yet the stocking trade is one of 
the worst in the world. What's the reason? It's machi- 
nery. I've heard it often said, and I've often read it in the 



198 THE MELDETJM FAMIL1 . 

newspapers, that machinery is the blessing of this country : 
that, without our machinery, we never could have stood out 
the last great war against all the world. Well, it may be a 
blessing to the country ; Grod knows ! for I don't •; — but I 
know that it's a curse to the people. Wherever there's 
machinery the people are as poor as crows ; and as to the 
war, why, to my thinking, it had been better if they could 
not have stood it out. That was a curse to the poor, and 
remains a curse to the poor ; for it grinds them to death 
with the debt it has left. But they tell you again that the 
debt is a blessing. Well, it may be a blessing to those who 
get any thing by it ; but it's a confounded curse to the 
poor. ' How to the poor ?' say they. Why, let them be 
poor, and they'd soon know. The manufacturer sells his 
goods to the merchant, and the merchant sends them abroad. 
But abroad they live cheaper, and they begin and manufac- 
ture for themselves; and the merchant abroad tells our 
merchant, that he can buy twenty or thirty per cent, 
cheaper of his own countrymen ; and, of course, our mer- 
chant must come down, or he can't sell. So he comes home 
and tells the manufacturer this ; and he says, you must 
afford your goods twenty or thirty per cent, cheaper. And 
the manufacturer, says ' How ? The raw material is so 
much, and the labour so much : we can't get the raw material 
cheaper, and if we reduce the labourer he can't live.' 
1 That,' says the merchant, ' is not my business, but yours : 
twenty per cent, lower, or I cannot buy.' So the manufac- 
turers lay their heads together, and say, ' The raw material 
we can't get cheaper, because our government takes no 
pains to encourage the growth of it in our colonies, and 
other countries are manufacturing ; and if we don't reduce 
the price, they will. Well, there's nothing for it but re- 
ducing the price of labour.' 

" Well, they reduce the price of the labour : they can't 
squeeze the foreign merchant, because he can get the goods 
elsewhere ; but they can squeeze the workman, because he 
can't get work elsewhere. And so he works at a starvation 
price — and why ? Because the debt lies on every thing, 
and has to be paid out of the taxes, and so makes every 
thing dear ; makes the poor man's bread, and the candle 
that he works by, and the house-rent, and every thing, dear. 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 199 

His labour, therefore, must be dearer too, if he is to live; 
but the manufacturer could not live if it were, because he 
is fast with the merchant, and the merchant with the fo- 
reigner. That end is fast, and so this end must give way. 
According to the old saving, ' the weakest must go to the 
wall ;' and so the poor workman goes to the wall. He is 
compelled to work, and to make more work than ever, so 
that the manufacturer may live, and the interest of the debt 
be paid. 

" So the debt grinds the poor man : he does not live, he 
only dies daily ; he dies by inches. More work than ever is 
made, or the manufacturer and the merchant could not get 
a living out of the fraction of profit now left them. And 
this, people call the blessing of machinery and of the debt. 
2s"ow, I say, if it be a blessing, it is all on one side ; it is a 
devilish curse to the poor. 

" But they say, where one man used to live by manufac- 
turing, thousands do now by means of machinery ; and so it 
is a blessing. Well, if they did live it would be a blessing ; 
but the devil take me if they do live ! The working manu- 
facturers are neither half fed nor half clothed : they are 
dragged to pieces for rent, taxes, and rates, and live in 
misery that is enough to drive them mad ; and yet they that 
ride in their carriages, and get up to eat and go to bed with 
full stomachs, talk of the blessings of machinery and the 
debt. God Almighty give them these blessings all to 
themselves ! 

' ; Well, — I was born on Bui well Common, the son of a 
stockinger, and doomed to be a stockinger myself. I've 
heard people read out of books that when one trade is too 
full, people naturally go to another ; and they call that poli- 
tical economy and philosophy: but they that write such 
rascally nonsense ought to be hanged for it. "When the 
Irish labourers get too many on the ground, why don't they 
turn to something else ? When a stockinger has children, 
and knows that his trade won't maintain them, why does 
not he put them to another ? Why, just because they can't. 
The Irishman can't manufacture land, and the waste land 
that God has already manufactured the aristocracy won't 
either use themselves, or let him use ; and as to trade, there 
is none in this country, and so they live as long as they can, 



200 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

and then die off like rotten sheep. And the stockinger does 
just the same : he and his children are made prisoners to 
their own trade by their poverty ; they'd be glad enough to 
get into another trade, but how ? All other trades are full, 
and it wants money for a man to put his son apprentice ; 
and that is just what the stockinger has not got. The mo- 
ment his children can seam a hose they must seam, and earn 
a penny ; and the moment they can mount a frame they 
must do it, and get all they can to help. And so the num- 
bers every day increase, though they know well enough that 
by this increase even the present starvation prices must 
decrease ; and so it has come to pass that the stockingers 
are eating one another, and when the horrible wretchedness 
is to end God knows, for I don't. 

" "Well, I was a stockinger's son ; I had better have been 
the devil's ten times, for he's a cunning piece of goods, and 
would have found me a good trade — made a lawyer, or a 
lord, or something of me ; but, as it was, I remember run- 
ning about, a stockinger's son, without shoes or stockings. 
I could have been very happy on Bulwell Common in the 
sunshine, in hunting birds' nests, and picking violets from 
under the hedges, or catching bullheads in the brook ; and 
these days are the only ones that I can remember that had 
any pleasure ; — only I was always so 'nation hungry. I was 
forced to sit at the house-end, and seam till my fingers were 
sore, and wind cotton, while I saw the colt galloping on 
the common, and the lark singing in the sky ; and I wished 
I had been only a colt or a lark, and not have to seam or to 
wind, and to starve for ever. Water-gruel, and nettle- 
porridge, and a piece of bread now and then, were my diet. 
I heard my father and the rest talk of Luddites, who broke 
the frames, and broke into the bakers' shops ; and I wished 
they might come that way ; for if the frames were broken, I 
saw clearly enough there could be neither seaming nor 
winding ; — and as for bakers' shops, when I passed them, 
and smelt the hot new bread — good Lord alive ! I would 
not have given a pin to go to heaven if I was not sure that 
there were bakers' shops there ! 

" But the Luddites never came, and I grew up into a 
great lad, and was set to work in the frame; and was starved 
six days every week on water-gruel and a few potatoes, and 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 201 

on Sundays lay in the sunshine in the fields, and ate raw 
turnips. 

" My father died soon, starved and worked out. My 
mother and the younger children went to the workhouse. 
1 staid in that house, and married." 

" Married !" ejaculated Meldrum. 

" Ay, married !" rejoined Bates. " Can't you tell why ?" 

" No ; how should I ? You could not maintain yourself." 

" Nor ever hoped to do," said Bates : " was sure I never 
could do, if I worked my fingers to the bone. It was pre- 
cisely for that reason that I got married. ' Population,' 
say the political economists — how often have I heard that 
read at our public house — ' increases with the means of sub- 
sistence.' It's a lie ! it increases with the want of it. Ire- 
land is a proof of it ; the manufacturing districts are another. 
Men must marry because they can't maintain themselves^ 
and then they get a claim on the parish. At least it was so 
then. I knew that when I had a wife and two children I 
could go to the parish and demand relief: so I married. 

" Now, what do you think we lived on, I and my wife ? 
I got about seven shillings a week, out of which I paid two 
shillings for frame rent ; then there was suet to stiffen the 
cotton, and candles, another shilling. Eour shillings were 
left, and my wife got about a shilling a week by seaming. 
Five shillings a week ; and of this two went for rent. The 
landlord came every Monday morning for it. Three shil- 
lings were left for two people — eighteen-pence apiece per 
week ! Why, Meldrum, your labourers' wages are princely 
to that. 

" But these were good times to what came after. I 
worked to a bag-hosier ; but you don't know what a bag- 
hosier is. He is a man who, to avoid starvation himself, by 
hook or by crook gets a frame or two at first. He hires 
them of the hosier in the town, and re-lets them at a profit 
to his neighbours. So he gets along till he has perhaps all 
the frames in the village, his own or in his hire, let and re- 
let. The stockingers take in their work to him, and he 
pays them, and carries these stockings to the town, and sells 
them to the great hosiers there. He is the English middle- 
man, and is called a bag-hosier, because he is often seen in 
the earlier part of his career carrying his goods in a bag on 



202 THE MELDBT7M FAMILY. 

his back to the town. But he soon gets beyond this, and 
sends them by the carrier ; then, perhnps, he gets his horse 
and gig ; and at last goes to the town, and becomes a great 
hosier and a great man himself. That is the history of 
scores who are now great and wealthy men, magistrates and 
mayors, and some of them parliament men. 

" Well, I don't blame them for getting on, — every man 
should try to get on : but I blame them for the means by 
which they often get on : they get on by tyranny and ex- 
tortion. Once that they get the stockinger under their 
thumb, all is over with him. He rents his frame of the 
bag-hosier, and takes in his work to him. He gets a few 
shillings into his debt, and is at his mercy. Then begin the 
screw and the press to work, and squeeze and crush him ; 
then begin the systematic bullying and baiting, and docking. 
Ah ! curse that word docking ! The horse is docked of his 
tail once in his life, but the stockinger is docked of his vitals 
every week of his existence. 

" He goes in with his work : he has been in his frame 
sixteen hours a day all the week. It is Saturday night, and 
till he gets his wages his family is without fire, candle, or a 
mouthful of bread. He has been induced to work to the 
bag-hosier because he is on the spot ; and the poor stock- 
inger, to whom time is inestimably precious, cannot afford 
to spend half a day, or a day, in going himself to the town. 
He enters the bag-hosier's house, and sits or stands ; there 
are a score of others. There he waits while one by one are 
called into the warehouse ; that is, the parlour. In goes 
every one in turn with a pale care-worn look, and a sad and 
anxious expression. The door is closed, and stern hard- 
sounding words are heard on the part of the hosier ; and, 
anon, out comes the poor man with a flushed look, and goes 
off' with a shake of the head, and a — ' God help us !' Your 
own turn comes. You go in ; the door is closed ; your 
stockings are taken. ' How many are there ?' ' So many.* 
They are counted ; the hand is put down them ; they are 
stretched, held up to the light, weighed ; — and then begins 
the operation of commercial rack and thumb-screw. 

" A thousand faults are found with the work. There are 
as n an} n veilings i' th' welts and toes as would stuff a bol- 
ster. There is a regular line of tuck-stitches hale (half) 



THE MELDRTTM FAMILY. 203 

way down th' hose. You have doubled the weight o' th' 
cotton by suet or oil ; that is by greasing it to make up for 
waste, and have thus embezzled half the cotton itself. You 
have put too few narrowings in, and narrowed by too many 
needles at a time. You've missed the presser, and have 
drawn th' course out. You've made cuts and let stitches 
down, and never stopped to mend 'em. You've made the 
work too slack by ten or a dozen nicks of a side. The 
seamer has missed th' loop and gone into th' wale. You've 
brought 'em in as damp as dish-clouts. 

" During all these imputed defects the bagman makes 
your hose almost as slack as he describes them, by stretch- 
ing them unmercifully as he shines them between himself 
and the candle. For every one of these defects there is a 
docking of the price ! You are told that there is no pleasing 
the hosiers at the warehouse now trade is so bad ; foreign 
goods are so cheap in the market ; there are so many hands 
out of work that nothing but the very best of work will go 
down ; and what is more, they can only give out -so much 
this week, the stock on hand is so great. 

" By the time this purgatory is gone through, the poor 
man has wasted half away in a perspiration of agony, and 
his wages have wasted away as fast. There is no help for 
it. If he complain, the answer is, ' Well, mend yourself; 
get work somewhere else, and pay what you owe me. Will 
you do that ? Shall I stop that fifteen shillings ? eh ! 
What do you say ?' What can the poor devil say ? He is 
only part of the machinery of a system that must follow the 
revolutions of the other wheels about him, or be smashed to 
atoms. He must do as all are doing — slave on, slave on, and 
die at last in the workhouse — or turn beggar, poacher, or 
thief. That is a nice picture of what war and aristocratic 
government, and the blessings of machinery, have brought 
us to. If any one doubt it, let him go and see. 

" For my part, I endured it in the hope of two children 
and a claim on the parish. The two children came, and just 
as I was about to make my claim the law was altered, and 
the New Poor Law and the union stared me in the face. 
Here was a go ! But there was no help for it : I was now 
grown desperate. I resolved to go into the Union. Any- 
thing seemed better than the starvation and misery that I 



204 THE MELDETTM FAMILY. 

endured. I applied, and was refused relief because I was in 
employ. I threw myself out of employ : no matter, I could 
have work : the bag-hosier offered it. I took his work, and 
determined to cut myself clear of this work that would not . 
maintain me. I did it so ill that the hosier refused me any 
more. Now the parish was compelled to take me into the 
house ; but this was not done till I had been to and fro 
from the overseer to the guardians, and from the guardians 
to the overseer, till my patience was worn out and my family 
were nearly dead with hunger. At last we got in. 

" It was at the time that the law was bran new, and the 
"Whigs and their commissioners were fiery hot to carry it 
out to the letter. My wife went one way, the children went 
another, and I a third. I was turned amongst a lot of" 
other stockingers, and we were set to work in frames ready 
prepared, and kept at it for twelve hours, and let out only 
in a small court surrounded by a high wall to walk. It is 
true that our food was much better than what we could get 
out of doors, but to be treated like so many cattle in a stall, 
fed and worked, kept shut up, and not allowed to see one's 
own flesh and blood, — that was more than could be endured 
long. But, besides this, to be called ' great hulking, idle 
fellows,' and insulted every time we ate with being told that 
we liked to eat that which we did not earn ; and to be 
dressed ail in one pauper costume, and every few days to be 
stared at by the guardians and called to account for not 
working hard enough, and not doing the work well enough, 
and for not being contented to be separated from our 
families, and threatened with beating hemp and the house 
of correction for every word that we spoke in our own 
defence — Grood Lord lit was enough to drive a man mad. 
They told us they resolved, and were bound by the law, to 
make it bitter to us, and sure enough they did. I soon 
asked leave to go out to seek work, determined to live on 
raw cabbage and lodge in a hovel rather than to be cooped 
up and hectored over there. It was granted me. I sought 
work in Nottingham, and got a promise in a day or two, and 
till then got a job of breaking stones on the road. I then 
went back to tell my wife that I should come and fetch her 
out in a few days, but I was told by the master of the union 
that I must either take them away at once, or come in 



THE MELDETJ'M FAMILY. 205 

myself. The one was not yet in my power, and the other I 
would not do. I returned to Nottingham, and the next day 
was seized by constables, and carried before the magistrates 
on the charge of having left my wife chargeable to the 
parish, and gone off with the clothes of the parish on my 
back. It was declared a felony in me to have gone oif with 
the parish property — that is, the clothes ! "Was the parish a 
felon too, for it had got my clothes ? I asked the magis- 
trate this, and he termed me insolent, and condemned me 
to three months hard labour in the house of correction at 
Southwell. 

" Man alive ! my blood was but poor and thin, but it 
boiled at this injustice. I would work and be independent 
of the parish, and it would not let me : it took my clothes 
to badge and ticket me as a pauper, and then branded me as 
a felon for having these pauper garments on my back when 
I sought work. 

" I went to Southwell, and to the treadmill. My heart 
swelled within me at every turn of the wheel, and I vowed 
vengeance against the master of the union, the parish, the 
magistrates — everybody ! I came out, but not before I had 
found others there ready to join me. There was a great 
poacher of Hucknal— a stockinger too. We retired to 
Bulwell and took each a house, and set up our frames as an 
excuse, but our resolve was to plunder the game in the 
woods of Papplewick, Annesley, and Newstead. 

" Eor a while things went on gloriously. We found a 
ready market for our game in Nottingham, Mansfield, Derby, 
and Newark ; but one night we were encountered by a band 
of keepers and watchers, and we fought with the fury of 
men who regarded each other with a hatred worse than that 
of enemies of different countries. They called us velveteen 
villains, the scum of the earth, thieves, and robbers ; we 
looked on them as the base slaves of proud, monopolising 
oppressors. The poacher of Hucknal was knocked down by 
a pocket-flail, after he had shot one of the keepers and felled 
another with the butt- end of his gun. We fled ; and there 
was no remaining any longer in the neighbourhood. I 
decamped, and reached first Leicester and then North- 
ampton, changing my name at each place. Here I soon 
found fresh companions of the same kind, and we came to 



206 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

tlie same conclusion of blows and murder. I was seized and 
imprisoned : I was condemned to transportation ; but the 
night before we were removed from the jail I made my 
escape, and got down to the New Eorest. Here awhile I 
herded with a gang of gipsies and deer-stealers. I heard 
that my wife had been put again into the Union, and had 
got her death by sleeping in a room of new erection not 
dry. The children were sent into Derbyshire to work in 
a mill. 

" From that day I cursed the laws of the country, and 
those who administered them, as if their fellow-men were 
vermin to be crushed and destroyed. I am an Ishmaelite — 
my hand is against every man of that class, as every 
one of their hands is against me. They shall see that 
those they trample on can yet turn like the trodden serpent, 
and sting." 

By the time that Bates — for so we must call him — had 
ended his harangue, he hpd worked himself up into a per- 
fect fit of livid fury : his face was pale and almost black with 
passion, his lips quivered, his eyes stared at the farther end 
of the ceiling, and his huge knotty stick, which he had 
snatched up from his bedside, he held aloft, and grasped with 
a fury that seemed to make every bone and muscle in his 
hand ready to burst from the skin. His long wild hair, his 
sandy whiskers, and unshorn chin, gave him a savage air ; 
and Meldrum, who sympathised deeply in his story, looked 
on him as a man not only justified in his sentiments, 
but as ready to face any danger, or death itself, in his 
revenge. 

Within a week from this time these two outcasts from 
society had inflicted evils upon it of the most terrible kind. 
They had made a round in Wiltshire and Hampshire, and 
had not only fired the ricks of five different farms, but con- 
sumed extensive covers of game and young plantations. 
The owners of these had done no personal evil to them ; for 
the most part of their property was insured, and the loss fell 
on others ; but it was all as one to the perpetrators, they 
did it on principle — the principle of revenge, and of striking 
what they called a salutary terror into those who oppressed 
the labouring classes. 

Returning from their expedition of destruction, with a 



THE MELDRUM EAMILT. 207 

hue and cry after them, with the rewards of thousands set 
upon their heads, and shrinking from the light of day, they 
concealed themselves in a wood near an obscure village, not 
far from the scene of the great agricultural meeting. 
Pressed by hunger, they approached the village in the dusk 
of the evening to obtain some bread. The first houses which 
they reached were a row of tenements of only one story, in 
a damp and cheerless lane. Everything about them bespoke 
the utmost poverty. A thick belt of trees shut out their 
view from the fields, and heaps of ashes and pestiferous de- 
posits in front of them proclaimed the absence of all proper 
convieniences of life. They were the houses of agricultural 
labourers. As is too often the case, they were not built by 
the landed proprietor, but were left to the speculation of the 
village carpenter or bricklayer, who erected them of refuse 
materials, and at a charge for rental returning more than 
cent, per cent. 

In the first of these miserable hovels in which they per- 
ceived a light, they saw a woman sitting by the blaze of a few 
sticks and in a state of deep dejection. They ventured to enter 
here, hoping to induce the woman, by a small fee, to proceed to 
the baker's and purchase them some bread. But the moment 
they entered the cottage a foetid odour struck upon their 
senses, and the next moment they observed a dead body lying 
in the room. It was that of a boy of about twelve years of age ; 
and the story of the mother filled their bosoms with horror 
and indignation. "The child," she said, "had been run 
over by the cavalry at the meeting, had suffered days of 
agony, and at length had died. He had now been dead a 
week. Decay had made dreadful progress, and yet they had 
no means to bury him. They had applied to the parish, but 
were refused all help, because the father was in employ. He 
earned seven shillings a week on a distant farm. They had 
implored the aid of the farmers for the purchase of a coffin. 
It had been refused. They had applied to the clergyman ; 
he replied that his business was to bury coffins, not to give 
them to the disaffected. There lay the corpse of the poor 
child in their only room, and near it gasped a girl of seven, 
in fever, the consequence of breathing this pestiferous atmo- 
sphere. The poor woman was bowed down with despair, 
and the husband was at this moment seeking for some bene- 



208 THE MELDBUH FAMILY. 

volent person who would enable them to bury their dead 
out of their sight. 

" But who shall help us ?" said the poor woman : " several 
of our neighbours have been sold up under executions, and 
there is nothing but stark staring poverty." 

The two incendiaries stood thunderstruck. They who 
had destroyed the property of strangers without remorse 
were confounded at this human misery. 

"Heaven and earth !" exclaimed Meldrum, "is there then 
no longer any feeling, any pretence to it in mankind ? Do 
they kill and refuse to bury ? Do they let the innocent 
child rot in the presence of its parents ? Horrible barba- 
rians ! detestable cruelty ! But this must not be !" 

The two felons proposed to do what not a pretended 
Christian could be found to do. The outcasts and the ab- 
horred of all the orderly and orthodox were the only ones 
who had any sense of the most solemn moral duties. They 
set at defiance their own danger ; and guided by the un- 
happy woman, they proceeded to a little draper's shop, and 
purchased a packing-case of sufficient length. In this they 
deposited the putrescent child, and again guided by the 
weeping mother, they procured a ladder, and scaling the wall 
of the locked-up church yard, they dug a grave, and by lan- 
tern-light buried the poor unoffending child, that had found 
no pity from the wealthy and comfortable. "What must 
have been the religion which had been for ages preached in 
that church, which had produced no better fruits ? Cer- 
tainly it could not be the religion of Christ. 

As the coffin lay in the bottom of the grave, before they 
began to shovel in the earth, Bates said to Meldrum : — 

" Meldrum, you are a sort of a parson ; finish the job well, 
by saying a service over the poor thing." 

" Nay ! nay ! not so," said Meldrum. " T cannot, I can- 
not, indeed!" 

" Nonsense, man ! say a short one ; don't bury the poor 
child like a dog." 

Meldrum stood for a moment silent. A spasm seemed to 
pass over his features, and casting a look up into the dark 
sky, he ejaculated, in a deep hollow voice : — 

" G-od ! — if there be a God — hear us ! Let the soul of this 
poor child — if souls there be — find that in heaven, which no 



THE MELDETTM FAMILY. 209 

longer exists on earth — mercy, and peace, and love. Earth ! 
that receivest this child to thy bosom — be his second mother, 
and let him sleep soundly, where no ruthless horseman can 
crush him ; where no proud professor of a humble creed 
can spurn his agonies and his prayers. Receive us too, O 
Earth ! Earth ! for in thy bosom there is rest, though on 
thy surface there remains no longer anything but hearts of 
the nether millstone, and the cant of sanctity which has no 
pity. Let the day of thy final doom come ; for the villain 
and malefactor are the only ones left in whom there is a 
spark of nature. If the wicked have become the best that 
thou hast to boast, what can purge its vileness but the 
last devouring flame ! Amen." 

The affrighted mother shrunk from the side of the speaker, 
though he had laid her child in the earth which all others 
had ref sed him ; and even Bates, as he began to shovel in 
the earth, muttered between his teeth, " Devil take such a 
sermon as that ! Why, Meldrum, you are mad !" 

Meldrum made no reply, but shovelling in the earth with 
all his might, they clapped on the crowning turf, and the 
three hastened over the wall, and quitting the poor woman 
at the door, the two retreated into the darkness, without 
further thought of the loaf which had brought them thither. 

The two incendiaries walked through the dark night in 
silence. At length they approached another village, and 
into this Bates volunteered to enter and procure some bread. 
Meldrum remained leaning on a gate. Eor about half an 
hour he continued awaiting his return, when he heard him 
come with hurried steps, and bidding him " come along," in 
a strange whisper, he hurried on down the lane in which 
they were, till they reached an open hill at some distance. 
Here Bates threw himself down in a hollow, and producing 
a loaf and some cheese from his handkerchief which he had 
carried under his arm, and a bottle of beer from his coat 
pocket, he put the bottle to his mouth, took a deep draught, 
and handling it to Meldrum, said : — 

" Do you know, Meldrum, where we are ?" 

" No ; how the devil should I ?" 

" Why, then, I can tell you ; we are where we must not 
be staying long. The village here is Scrimton. I would 
not let you go into it, lest you might be known ; and it is 

]? 



210 THE MELD RUM FAMILY. 

well. The land sharks, or the red lobsters if you will, are 
abroad there. Button is off to America. He was obliged 
to make a quick exit, for his taking the chair at the meeting, 
His widow, — wife, I mean, — curses you as the cause of it 
and the troubles; the child killed, that we've just buried, 
hallaxed about before the justices, and the like, and all the 
farmers and gentlemen being as sore as baited bears, and 
turning off every poor devil they can." 

Meldrum groaned. 

" Well, never groan at that, my man ; these things* must 
be before we can rouse them. There, eat some bread and 
cheese, and ]et us be going, for it's not safe here, I can tell 
you." 

The two ate up their provision, for it was the only food 
they had had for two days. Bates whirled the bottle through 
the darkness as far as his strength would let him send it, 
and starting to his feet they hastened down between the 
hills, directing their steps for Twigg's Houses, and the safe 
shelter of the roof of Captain Crick. 

After walking on for upwards of an hour, they found 
themselves on the edge of a low marshy sort of moor, and 
were in the act of crossing a stile, when the cry of a curlew 
struck on their ear, a little in advance of them. Bates 
started, and remained with one leg on each side of the stile, 
as he returned the cry with a perfectness of imitation which 
surprised Meldrum. This was followed by the short crow of 
a pheasant, and Bates, advancing with cautious steps, fol- 
lowed by Meldrum in wondering silence, they soon saw a 
man standing in the middle of a narrow path, in which they 
had to advance. " Bates !" " Arpthorp !" These words were 
scarcely given and returned, when Meldrum perceived that 
the person before them was no other than the trusty hostler 
of Captain Crick. 

" "What's up ?" said Bates, " for there's something, or you 
had not been here." 

" There's that up," said Arpthorp, " that you must cut, 
and keep clear of Twigg's Houses. The governor has been 
on the look-out for you these three or four nights, and I've 
had to cool my toes on your account in more places than one. 
To-day he'd a notion that you'd be coming this way. Well, 
a word with you by yourself." 



THE MELDRTJM FAMILY. 211 

The two went to some distance up the hill, and Meldrum. 
could hear them in earnest conversation, of which he could 
catch nothing but sundry oaths. It was plain, however, 
that they discussed matters of no little moment ; at length, 
Bates came back alone. 

"Back's the word, Meldrum! "We must make for safe 
quarters, if they can be found, for we are smoked. There's 
a devil of a hue and cry after us for the rick burnings. 
Crick won't have us come within a score miles of him, if he 
can help it. I'm off on business for him down to Plymouth, 
and you'd better get into London for a while, and hide in 
the thickest place you can find. Change your clothes, my 
boy, too ; mind that ! and you can hear of me by a note ; 
you can write to Crick's any time, — only have a care what 
you say ; only ask, ' Where's the wool lodged ?' and 
wherever Crick says, there I am. If I can't rejoin you, I 
shall, may be, be able to tell you where you can join me in 
some other part of the country. Grood bye !" 



CHAPTEE V. 

"LOWER AND YET LOWEE ; JAMES MEXDETTM A MTJEDEEEB AND AS* 
OUTCAST. 

The two friends — shall we call them ? — No, there can be 
no friendship between the wicked, by whatever means they 
may have been driven into their wickedness, — the two 
scoundrel incendiaries — the men already worked up from 
plodding and simple countrymen into malefactors, — parted. 
They hoped to meet again — for what ? To commit more 
crimes — to indulge still more their revenge on society, 
even while they still nattered themselves that they did God 
service by rousing the poor against their oppressors. Bates 
disappeared through the dark, and Meldrum, with some 
dodging, made his way once more to Reading. Bates had 
told him to plunge into the great wilderness of London for 
safety — to hide himself in the densest underwood of its 
indigent myriads ; but Meldrum had never been in the huge 
metropolis, and he had a sort of dread of it. He considered 
himself unqualified to make his way there, where he had 
always heard that rascality received the highest finish of 
education in the great school of streets and crowds. He 
had a well-founded notion that at his time of life he was not 
likely to acquire that adroitness which those put to this 
famous school by the step-mother Necessity in their earliest 
years are possessed of, and that to play out the game of 
life's chess against city police was a different thing to 
skulking in woods and under hedges, putting a wire neck- 
lace round an unlucky hare, or thrusting a lucifer into a rick. 
For these weighty reasons Meldrum lingered in a 
wretched hiding hole in one of the lowest alleys in Beading. 
He avoided as much as possible the daylight, and the eyes 
of men. He had a few shillings which Bates had given him 
at parting, but these soon wasted away, and poverty stared 
him in the face. There is no such despot as the keeper of a 
lodging-house. The laws of the Medes and Persians were 
nothing to his laws. Death himself is not more inexorable ; 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 213 

it is to pay or turn out. Meldrum saw that the latter 
alternative was approaching, and yet he lingered. He 
starved himself to eke out his few remaining shillings, and 
stole out at night when it was thoroughly dark to range into 
the country, and see whether he could not snickle a hare, 
rob a potato pit, or at least gather some turnips to boil. 
But the winter was now set in with merciless fierceness. He 
had to gather the few turnips that he could secure from 
those which had been pulled from the frosty ground during 
the day for the flocks, and which, by the time he reached the 
field, were half eaten. The wind swept through him with 
frosty rigour, shaking his very bones within him, for his 
clothes were every day getting more thin aud dilapidated ; 
and his internal clothing — that of his stomach — was equally 
deficient. "With hunger and anxiety upon him he began to 
brood over desperate thoughts. Hares, potatoes, and 
turnips, were not likely to satisfy him long. The prospect 
of soon having no sheltering roof, even such as he had now, 
without fire, and with few articles of covering at night, and 
no home but this bleak, freezing, and nocturnal world, in 
which he ranged to and fro, made him grow desperate. He 
had written to Captain Crick, hoping to hear something of 
Bates, and clinging to the hope of going off to him, though 
in some very distant place : but the answer which came was 
as short and cutting as any human style could possibly 
arrive at ! " The wool is lodged in Derby warehouse, and 
will soon be exported. "Write no more here ; we have no 
further dealings in your line." 

There was no name signed : Meldrum knew it was not 
safe. The wool in Derby warehouse, and about to be ex- 
ported ! Bates in Derby gaol, and about to be transported ! 
That was a death-blow to his last hope. His last shilling 
was in his pocket ; to-morrow it must pass into that of his 
landlord. A pressure was on his soul like tons of lead ; 
every nerve and sinew in his body seemed stretched as on a 
rack ; devils seemed tugging at erery one of them. There 
was an agony, black, terrible, and demoniac, in his heart and 
in every limb. He stole forth at night, and took his way 
mechanically towards his own village. Beecup, and the farm 
where he had worked so many years, seemed to draw him 
e,ven when he was not thinking of them, but of some deadly 



214 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

termination to his misery. Many such presented themselves 
to his racked and lacerated brain ; but he decided on none : 
such choice is not easily made — it requires the last turn of 
the rack of mental torture, and then it is snatched, not 
chosen. 

Awaking out of a dream of horrors, at it seemed, the un- 
happy wretch found himself standing on the old green, and 
before the very house where he had passed so many happy 
and innocent, aye, virtuous years. The moon had risen, and 
shone with a light almost of day, on the pure, silent, and 
glittering expanse of snow which covered everything. There 
was not a living thing abroad. The sound of a dog's bark, 
and the crow of a cock, came ever aud anon from the distant 
farms, but all besides was profoundly still, and brilliant. 
The full stream of moonlight played on the cottage front, 
and lit up every piece of framed timber, and every brick. 
The snow lay thick on the thatch, and the long icicles hung 
sparkling like the lustres of a chandelier from the eaves. 
.Every pane of glass, and every corner and bush of the 
garden — the great square stone by the door, and the dry 
stalks of the last year's house-leek, on the ridge of the house, 
all were distinct as at noon, and fell on Meldrum's soul with 
the same sensation as if a red-hot iron were passed through 
his vitals. The long history of the past went across his 
mind with the fleetness and the devastatingviolence of ahurri- 
cane through the desert,— his wife, his children, his Metho- 
dist friends and leadership ; the new system of the new land- 
lord ; this depopulating system — and what had since followed. 
Satan himself, when pondering on his fall from heaven, did 
not experience worse pangs, nor feel more utterly damned. 

At the first moment Meldrum half started at the open 
brightness, and feared lest he might be seen, but the next 
moment a spirit of defiance to men and fate seized him. 
Any one seeing him stand before the cottage, which stood 
in the brilliant light, as shut up and silent as if it slept as 
well as its inhabitants, would have regarded him as some 
fellow of the most malignant stamp, meditating some horrible 
deed. 

And they would not have been far wrong : but against that 
house or its inmates he planned, meditated nothing. He 
cast a fierce glance to where the hall stood in the front of 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 215 

its noble woods on the neighbouring uplands, the moonlight 
blaziug on its white proud front, and at the thought that 
there lay, in luxury and earth's fulness of good, the man that 
had made him what he was ; he stalked on, and at every step 
a more misanthropic gall gathered into his heart. The 
time he felt was come for some desperate deed. He was re- 
turning to his lodgings ravenous with hunger, but without 
hope of even a crust of bread, and the one shilling in his 

pocket mustbepaid, and then ! But why should he return 

at all ? Why not spend that shining for food, and seek 
fresh quarters for the next night r As these thoughts went 
through his mind he came within view of a genteel cottage, 
which he used daily to pass on his way from the town to the 
farm. It was one which turned its back upon the road, and 
had attached to it a garden, of which the edge also ran along 
the road side. 

Sudden idea3 flashed into the malefactor's heart. He 
stood still, and gazed on that house as he had gazed on his 
own. In this cottage lived an old lady, a widow, a woman 
of genteel station and habits, but of small property. In this 
cottage, five miles from the town, she and her husband, in 
his lite-time, used to spend the summers ; since bis death 
she had lived there altogether. Two nieces, and a maid- 
servant, constituted her family. A man came every day to 
look after her pony and chaise, tend the garden, and clean 
knives and shoes. But he lived a quarter of a mile off, and 
generally completed his duties in the morning. This house 
might have been once considered an exposed residence for 
ladies only, but in these days of quiet and police there 
seemed no cause for fear. The old lady often boasted that 
she had never had so much as a cat killed, or a cabbage 
stolen. There was a black terrier, it is true, chained in the 
garden, near the house, with a small cask laid on one side 
for a kennel ; but this kennel was placed close within the 
hedge, and nothing could have been easier than for any 
designing persons to make acquaintance with the dog. 
Meldrum had already done this, without any design ; but 
having stopped frequently in summer mornings and evenings 
as he went by, to peep through the thinner places of the 
hedge at the flowers and tae neat lawn, and sometimes at 
the ladies walking there, often merrily talking and laughing, 



216 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

and sometimes on a summer evening seated out on the grass 
at their work, he had set himself to soothe the dog when 
he began to bark as he stopped. By degrees the acquaint- 
ance became thoroughly confirmed by the occasional use of 
soft caressing words from Meldrum, and the toss of a dry 
crust over the hedge. 

It is a proverb that hungry dogs will eat dirty pudding ; 
but it is equally true that pampered dogs will eagerly eat a 
very wretched and unsavoury morsel amidst all their plenty, 
when they can get it from the most miserable beggar. Mel- 
drum was long ago on such terms of intimacy with this dog, 
that, instead of barking at his approach, he knew his very 
step, and coming around to the back of his kennel would 
stand silently wagging his tail. 

But besides this dog there was another object which had 
often attracted Meldrum's attention, and that was the small 
window which looked out upon the road, and which, with a 
degree of carelessness which nothing but long security 
could have induced, had been more than once left at night 
with the shutter unclosed, after the room within had been 
lighted up. Meldrum's curiosity had led him, when this had 
occurred, as he passed to peep through the opening at the 
side of the blind, and view what was passing within. There 
he saw the lady and her nieces seated in their elegant room, 
at their tea, or reading and working, or appearing as happy 
as earth could make them. To Meldrum the contrast with 
his own wretched condition, and miserable lodgings in the 
town, had not been wanting in bitterness. But one evening 
he had been much excited by seeing the old lady alone — 
occupied in what ? In counting over a number of sovereigns 
that appeared to Meldrum's imagination a perfect mine of 
gold. He saw herpick up the coin, deposit it in a small 
drawer, and crossing the room, place this drawer in its 
proper location, adesk, which she closed and locked, but, to his 
surprise, did not take the key from. The old lady certainly 
did not seem a very suspicious character, nor quite prudently 
careful, or she would have had this shutter early closed, 
and the key of the desk not standing in the key-hole, but 
snug in her pocket. 

Meldrum's curiosity and other feelings were excited, and 
every time that he could get a peep through this window of 



THE MELDEUM EAMTLY. 217 

an evening he looked eagerly at the desk, and to his wonder 
saw the key almost invariably standing in the key-hole. 

This fact had generated many queer thoughts in his mind. 
He had pondered, and turned many things in his thoughts, 
and speculated on his acquaintance with the dog, and other 
matters. But all this was long ago. By a singular chance, 
or rather from his having been withdrawn from this road 
and occupied with engrossing affairs in distant places, he 
had entirely forgotten these things and thoughts. They 
now came upon him all at once, and with a strange force. 
They could not have come upon him under more perilous 
circumstances, either for his own honesty, if he had any left, 
or for the property of the lady. He stood and gazed on the 
house — he drew near to the place by the hedge where the 
dog's kennel stood. If the dog was in it, it slept, for nothing 
moved, and Meldrum turned, and walked onwards towards 
the town, and with quickened speed. As the road wound 
so as to be about to shut out the view of the house, he turned 
suddenly round, gave another look at the house, and then 
went on again. It was long after midnight. The moon, 
which had risen early in the evening, but under thick clouds 
and the obscurity of a heavy snow shower, was now setting, 
after a run of radiance, through a most intensely blue and 
frosty sky ; and it grew dark. This suited Meldrum, and 
under its shade, with the knowledge he had of the town 
and the rounds of the night-police, he managed to reach 
his wretched lodgings, for his last sleep there. JSTo — rest 
there ? no — for he neither had sleep nor rest : his mind was 
busy with a black temptation— he waited the passing of the 
next day, and the evening of the next month, as a tiger waits 
in his jungle. 

The landlord came with his demand ; Meldrum paid down 
his last shilling : and as the shades of night fell, he started 
forth, a man without a penny — without a home : but not 
without an object. 

In the house which attracted Meldrum' s attention on his 
return from his night ramble, on the following morning 
might be seen assembled at breakfast the old lady and her 
two nieces. These young ladies were in a particularly gay 
humour, and the conversation all turned on the event of 
the day — their setting out to London on a Christmas visit. 



218 THE MELDBUM EAMILT. 

It was within a few days of this season, and these ladies 
were about to pass a fortnight of it with their friends in 
town. They were in full and delightful anticipations of 

Earties, dances, theatres, and similar pleasures. The old 
idy was happy in their pleasure, and sent a thousand 
messages of affectionate remembrances to her old friends in 
the metropolis. 

" But I am so concerned, dear aunt," said one of them, 
" that you will be so lonely ; I wish you were going 
with us." 

" Ay, that is all very fine," replied the aunt, " but while 
I cannot, with my weak back, even get up stairs without 
pain and exhaustion, what, indeed, should I do in London ? 
No, no : I am quite happy that you will be enjoying your- 
selves, arid I shall not be lonely either. Don't you remem- 
ber that Fred, my dear lad, is coming next week'; and what 
can 1 desire more than to see him, and talk to him while 
you are away ?" 

" Ay, but Fred, dear aunt, will always be flying away to 
Beading. He will have too many engagements there to 
leave you much talking-time." 

" No," replied the old lady, " he will be here in the day- 
time. He will only be away in the evenings." 

" And that is just when you will want company," added 
both the young ladies in a breath. " Oh dear ! I do not 
think it safe for you to be here long evenings, and very likely 
whole nights, by yourself. Do be persuaded, and let Jonas 
come and sleep in the house." 

" No, no : Fred will be here in a few days, and then all 
will be safe enough, I hope. Why, how many years have 
I lived here, and not a stick or a straw taken !" 

" But do you know, aunt," said one of the nieces, turning 
pale, " do you know, I actually dreamed the other night 
that I saw a thief in the house, with his face blackened, and 
I woke with the fright, and thought I would not leave home 
unless you had Jonas here ?" 

" Nonsense, child, with your dreams and blackened faces ! 
you want to alarm me, that I may have Jonas as guard ; 
and, if it will make you any more contented, he shall 
come." 

" That's right ! that's right !" exclaimed the young ladies, 



THE MELDEUM EAMILT. 219 

clapping their hands for very joy over their triumph, — 
" that's right ; now we shall be quite happy. But pray, 
dear aunt, don't let Jane forget to feed the canary." 

And with this the lively girl sprang up, and approaching 
the cage, began talking to the bird, which came fluttering to 
the side of its prison, speaking in its musical and expressive 
notes to its mistress. 

The next moment the glad and sprightly girls sprung 
away upstairs to pack for the departure, and presently 
the pony-chaise drew up to the front of the house, and the 
maid ran up stairs, crying, — " Miss Emma ! Miss Matilda ! 
the chaise is here !" 

In a few more minutes the strong, blooming country girl 
was lugging boxes and trunks down stairs, and handing 
them to the man ; and the two ladies, after sundry remindings 
by the maid that Jonas said they would be too late for the 
train, and their aunt calling to them from the bottom of the 
stairs, made their appearance, all freshness and smiles, and 
embraciDg their aunt, took their departure. 

Such was the scene in the morning : at night, the old lady, 
who slept in the room on the ground-floor adjoining the 
sitting-room, awoke with some unusual noise in this sitting- 
room, and, opening the door, beheld the dream of her niece 
— a man with a blackened face and a dark lantern standing 
by her desk, which was open, and her money-drawer in his 
hand. 

At this sight she uttered a piercing shriek, and in the 
next moment she felt herself seized by the shoulders and 
pitched headlong into her bed-room : the door was closed 
upon her and locked, and the villain, emptying the con- 
tents of the money-drawer into his pocket, decamped through 
the door, which was left open on purpose, and was gone. 

In the morning, Jonas, who had slept in the house, came 
down stairs first, and was astonished to find the door open, 
and then immediately to find the desk open, and one drawer 
out, and empty. He roused the maid, whose terror was ex- 
cessive, and they soon found other traces of the visit of a 
robber. One of the windows towards the garden was open, 
and the means by which it had been opened were obvious 
enough. In the snow under the window there was much 
trampling, as of a man's feet. A strong iron chisel, a foot 



220 THE MELDET7M FAMILY. 

in length, was lying in the snow, and a pot of treacle and 
some paper. It was plain that /he burglar or burglars had 
forced open the shutters with a chisel, and applying a piece 
of treacled paper to a pane, had cut it round with a glazier's 
diamond, and thus made an entrance for a hand to unfasten 



It was easy to conceive that this operation had been done 
with tolerable silence, as the glass, even if it fell with the 
treacled paper sticking to it, would make no noise. But 
then, how had it happened that neither man nor maid were 
awoke by the shriek of their mistress ? 

They now hastened to apprise their mistress of the alarm- 
ing facts. The maid knocked at her door — she did not 
wake ; she knocked again — all was still ; louder yet — there 
was no reply. Then the maid, still more alarmed, opened 
the door, and, approaching the bed, stumbled over something 
on the floor. She screamed : the man rushed in with a 
candle, and stood horrified at the spectacle which presented 
itself ; — it was that of his mistress, lying dead, with her head 
agaiust the bed-post, and her grey hair and cap all clotted 
with gore. 

It may be imagined what was the horror of the two 
domestics. They lifted the dead body of their mistress upon 
her bed : it was cold and stiff, and had evidently been life- 
less for hours. The man mounted one of the ponies and 
galloped off to the town to give notice to the magistracy 
and surgeon, leaving the maid in a state of grief and terror 
indescribable. 

It was not long before two officers of police and a surgeon 
arrived in the utmost haste at the house. The door, the 
window, the chisel, the treacle-pot, the feet-marks — all were 
examined ; the servants strictly questioned ; the body of 
the deceased scrutinized. There was no mark of violence 
about the corpse, except a large wound on the top of the 
head, which the surgeon at once attributed to the lady 
having fallen or been pushed violently against the sharp 
corner of the bed-post, in contact with which it lay. 

Had all else been right, it might have been supposed that 
the deceased had got out of bed in the night and by some 
accident fallen against the bed ; but the open door and 
window, and the apparatus for effecting an 



THE MELD RUM FAMILY. 221 

demonstrated that there had been violence used by some 
other party. 

The coroner and his jury arrived also in a few hours, and 
the circumstances of the case were again minutely examined 
into. There then began to turn, as it was very likely that 
it would, a suspicion against the man and maid. They were 
both sleeping in the house ; the young ladies were absent ; 
they professed to have slept so soundly as to have heard no 
noise or outcry whatever. For many years the old lady had 
resided here without the slightest molestation, or even petty 
theft ; her nieces quit her, the man-servant comes to sleep 
in the house, and that very night the lady is murdered. 
They both protested, not only their innocence, but their 
deep regard for their mistress. They showed that the door 
was open, and spoke of the forced window, and the chisel, 
and the treacle. The police pointed to the blood on their 
clothes : this, the servants said, was owing to their having 
lifted the body from the floor to the bed. 

The inquest returned a verdict of " Wilful murder against 
some person or persons unknown," and agreed so far in 
the force of circumstantial evidence with the police and 
surgeon, that the two servants were lodged in gaol for 
further inquiry. 

That very day the terrified nieces in London received the 
dreadful intelligence, that their aunt was murdered, and 
their servants in gaol on suspicion of the foul deed. 

Meldrum was the murderer ; and instead of one victim 
there bade fair to be three. The two innocent servants, 
spite of their unimpeachable characters, and of the opinion 
of the lady's nieces given warmly in their favour, lay at the 
peril of their lives in the prison, with the force of circum- 
stances against them. They were examined and re-examined, 
but without anything being able to be really brought home 
to them, or anything appearing which might clearly ex- 
culpate them. The poor maid was in agonies of fear and 
passionate grief at the very suspicion of having raised her 
hand against her mistress. Her family and the family of 
Jonas were in despair. 

On the third day, a certain glazier came to give evidence, 
that his shop, situated at the back of a yard, had been 
broken open after it was dark, and a diamond pencil stolen 



222 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

away, and this diamond had been found in the way between 
the house of the deceased and the cottage of the man Jonas : 
this was considered decisive, and the two servants were 
finally committed for trial. No more money was found in 
Jonas' s house: it was thought he had hid it too securely : 
but soma days afterwards, a woman who kept a little shop, 
hearing of the treacle-pot. requested to see it, and declared 
that it was hers, and had been obtained by a man in drab, 
whom she had frequently seen about, on pretence that it 
had been for a gentleman well known in the town, who lived 
near her shop, and that he would pay for it ; the money she 
had never seen, and on sending to the gentleman's house 
it was denied that they had ever sent him. 

The police were not long in fixing their suspicions on 
Meldrum, whose appearance was well known to them ; they 
found that he had gone out that night, and had never since 
been seen ; that he was in needy and most suspicious 
circumstances ; that he was suspected of being the in- 
cendiary speaker at the agricultural meeting ; and that 
he had been for a long time in the habit of passing this 
very house of the murdered lady on his way to and from 
his work. 

So far did this operate that the two innocent accused 
were liberated on bail, and a strong hue and cry issued 
against Meldrum. 

In the meantime this miserable murderer had flown, with 
the furies of hell in his soul. He had committed robbery, 
and his neck was in danger. What injury he had done the 
old lady he did not yet know, but he knew that it could 
not be trivial, for he heard her fall with violence on the floor, 
and heard her groan. With her booty on his person, and a 
haunting suspicion of murder in his heart, he fled up the 
road, and at some distance plunged in a copse, where he 
washed the grime from his face with snow, and then, re- 
gaining the road, pursued his way as fast as he could towards 
London. Before it was light he had made such progress 
that he had outgone the flying rumour of the crime, and 
dreading to be seen on the road, he daringly mounted a 
coach coming from another great highway, and reached 
London before noon. Here he lost no time in making his 
way into the densest part of Whitechapel ; and, purchasing 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 223 

some bread at a baker's, lie dived into the most obscure 
alleys he could find in search of a private lodging, — however 
mean he cared not, so that it were private. He dared not 
trust himself in any common lodging-house, for the tramping 
tenants of such haunts might recognise him, should there 
be any description of his person. At length he saw what 
he deemed a fitting spot. There was a paper in the window, 
— " An upper room to let for a single man, half-a-crown 
a week." But, before he ventured to inquire, he went off 
several streets and purchased a suit of sailor's clothes, which 
he saw exposed, and an old great coat, w T hich concealed his 
ordinary garb. Thus partly disguised, and with his sailor's 
bundle, he ventured on the aforesaid lodgings, and there 
ensconced himself. 

This house, in which Meldrum had secured a retreat, was 
that of the landlord of various wretched tenements in this 
obscure alley. The man was a bachelor or widower ; a tall 
spider-limbed man of apparently sixty, in a rusty black old 
dress coat, black knee-breeches, and with a face of foxy 
sharpness, and eyes small, peering, and expressive of avarice 
and selfishness. He was, in fact, the spider of his nook. 
His business was to collect his weekly rents, and avoid, by 
every sordid means possible, every species of outlay. He 
might be seen with his high shoulders, stooping head, and 
long thin limbs, going out and in, chiefly to fetch in his 
daily necessaries, which he purchased at the most miserable 
little shop in the neighbourhood, because he thus got his 
rent. Every room in his house, which was tall and narrow, 
was let, except one in which he lived, and into this he never 
let any one enter. If any of his lodgers went to speak to 
him, or pay their rent, he answered the knock by looking 
out with the door just enough opened to admit half his face 
and one eye to be seen, and putting a small chain across 
while he transacted the business, — that is, took the money 
and entered it in the lodgers' book, and gave this book 
back again. 

Of course nothing could be more wretched than the rooms 
of this tenement. Meldrum found a mass of filthy rags on 
an iron bedstead, which was called a bed, and a wooden 
stool, in his room. That was all the furniture. There was 
a fireplace, but no fire ; and as it was miserably cold weather 



224 THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 

he got some coals brought in, — the landlord taking the 
money and ordering them, and having them set inside of the 
house ; Meldrum himself carrying them up to his room. 
Here he as speedily as possible doffed his old drab suit and 
put on his sailor's dress ; carefully rolling up the old suit 
into a bundle, and tying them in his handkerchief. 2sTo 
sooner was it dark than he descended the stairs to issue 
forth with the bundle, his purpose being to carry it and sink 
it in the Thames. The front door, however, he found locked ; 
and while pottering about to see if he could get it open, the land- 
lord put forth his sharp face, half covered with a white beard 
a week old, through the partly opened door of his room, and 
throwing the light of a candle on him, asked what he wanted. 

"To go out," said Meldrum. 

" What would you go out for ?" demanded the old man- 
spider, looking keenly at Meldrum' s bundle, as if he sus- 
pected that his new lodger was in truth making off from his 
not very enviable quarters ; though he had taken his usual 
precaution to have the week's rent of the room in advance. 

"I want my working suit mended," said Meldrum. 
" Have you a tailor near ?" 

"To be sure," said the man; "I'll go and show you." 
And with this he put his chain over his door for a moment, 
and in the next came out with his hat on. This by no 
means suited Meldrum' s purpose, who stoutly opposed it. 

"Oh! if you don't like me to go into the tailor's with 
you, I'll stay in the street while you go in — I only want to 
help you." 

" Thank you," said Meldrum, drily ; " but I can do very 
well myself. I never will have anybody with me when I go 
about business." 

"Well, well!" said the man; "every one to his ways, 
well, well !" And with a malicious look he opened the door, 
and glancing the light after Meldrum, as he issued into the 
alley, as if he expected he was going clear off, he then closed 
the door. Meldrum, greatly relieved at this riddance, now 
set out to reach the Thames. Whether he had studied a 
map of London at any time, or whether he enquired his way, 
is unknown, but he was soon stalking down Ay liffe- street, 
past Goodman' s-fields, into Rosemary-lane, and so out to 
Tower-hill. Here, hastening across Little Tower-hill, to 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 225 

escape as quickly as possible from the light of the gas in 
the open space, he plunged down the lane betwixt the Tower 
and St. Catherine's- docks. To effect his purpose, however, 
of procuring some heavy stones and sinking his bundle into 
the river, was no easy attempt. Everywhere there seemed 
to his uneasy eye gas-lights, sauntering police, watermen, 
and idlers. It was not till he had made several essays, and 
found as many obstructions, that after retracing his steps, 
traversing East Smithfield and Eatcliff-highway for a great 
distance, he turned down New Gravel-lane, and between 
"Wapping-docks and Wall contrived to drop his bundle into 
the murky water, and saw it swallowed up, as he hoped, 
for ever. 

Hurrying back at his best speed, he found by the church 
clocks as he went along that it was late, and on arriving at 
the door of the lodgings he had to knock long and loud 
before he could get an entrance. Though he knew that the 
landlord lay in his room, which was the very next to the 
door, he had raised all the lodgers, who put their heads out 
of the upper windows, one after another, before he could 
rouse him. 

" It's the new lodger," said a woman's voice in the 
chamber window just over the door, to some one in the room ; 
" If old Brassington isn't in the humour, I'm blessed if he'll 
let him in, perishing as the night is." 

The next minute he heard the same voice at 6ld Brassing- 
ton's door, accompanied by a good lusty knocking, telling 
him the top lodger was raising the street in trying to make 
him hear. Presently he heard the key turn and chains fall, 
and old Brassington showed his fox's face and ferret eyes 
through a narrow opening of the door, and said, — 

" So it's you, eh ? You keep pretty hours, don't you ? 
Have you been all this time finding the tailor ?" 

" Let me in," said Meldrum, gruffly ; " I've stood starving 
long enough, man, I should think." 

The door opened, and Meldrum, seeing the door locked 
again, asked the old man for a light to find his way up to 
his room. 

" If you'll pay for it you can have it," said Brassington ; 
and Meldrum, assenting to the miserly demand, made his 

Q 



226 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

way up to his desolate attic : there, wearied with the ex- 
ertion of the day and the excitement of the last night, he 
threw himself upon the vile bed, and slept a heavy sleep till 
morning ; he arose, made a fire, and then went out to buy 
necessaries for his breakfast. At the shop where he did 
this he had to change one of his sovereigns, and his sus- 
picious state of mind was alarmed as the man seemed to give 
a glance at him as he took the money, and again as he 
counted out the change. His guilty spirit was in a constant 
condition of dread ; not a light shone on him but it seemed 
as if on purpose to expose him ; not an eye fell on him but 
he expected a detection. 

As he sat at his breakfast, with his great coat in which 
he had gone out still on his back, his landlord came in with- 
out ceremony, to claim a halfpenny for the last night's 
candle. Meldrum paid it, and expected him to take himself 
off; but Brassington had no such intention. Meldrum's 
fire had attractions, for he indulged in none of his own ; and 
besides, he was devoured with curiosity as to his new lodger's 
who and what. 

" So you are a sailor, eh ?" 
Meldrum nodded. 

" Ay, so ; and in what service are you, then ? — the Mer- 
chant, I reckon." 

Meldrum nodded again ; but by this time a cold terror 
had seized on him. In assuming the guise of a sailor, he had 
forgotten that he would have to act the part of a sailor too ; 
and there was not a man on earth less qualified by any 
knowledge of the life, language, or habits of sailors. He 
had no preconcerted plan on the subject — no story. "What 
was he to do ? 

" In the Merchant service, are you ?" continued the land- 
lord. " "What vessel do you belong to, eh ?" 
"It's only a collier," said Meldrum. 
" A collier — oh ! you're a collier boy, eh ? Coast it to 
Newcastle or there, eh ?" 
Meldrum nodded. 

"You're deuced mum for a sailor; but then a collier 
is but half a sailor — he is not much better than a canal 
boatman." 



THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 227 

" No," said Meldrum. 

" "What's the vessel ? "Who's the master ? "Where does 
she lie, eh r" 

Meldrum, who was just as well prepared to answer one 

question as the other, broke out with a 

" "What the devil does it signify to you where she lies, I 
should like to know ? If I pay you for my room, you can 
afford, I fancy, to let me have it to myself, and keep off from 
boring me with your catechism. If that is not it, why I am 
off again." 

" Oh ! I did not mean to offend you — I was only asking 
in a friendly way," added Brassington, drawing nearer to 
the fire, and rubbing his hands. 

" ^re you fond of news ? I've just got the paper," pull- 
ing it out of his pocket, " and I'll read it to you, if you like ;" 
and, without waiting for an answer, he hurried out, and re- 
turned with an old chair, which he placed by the fire, and 
seated himself. A terrible sensation went through Meldrum 
at the very mention of a newspaper. He was deprived of 
all power of utterance or motion. He sat on his chair as if 
glued to it, and the rustle of the page, as Brassington spread 
it out and prepared to read, seemed to say, — " Ay, there's all 
about it!" He felt a certain desperate assurance that his 
crime was all detailed there — and it was not only robbery, 
but murder. The old man turned over one side, then 
another, then folded it in half, then into a quarter. Foreign 
news — I don't take much interest in that. The markets — 
how are things ? Consols ? — Oh ! that's well. Shares ? 
— very bad indeed. Hang all these advertisements ! one 
would wonder how they answer. Domestic news ? — Ay, 
let's hear a little of that. Police ? — Ay, that's what I like. 
"What's here? — robbery! murder! — Nothing but murder 
now-a-days. G-ad ! what ! A lady of property ? There it is 
again! who'd have money? But — " Here the old man's 
eyes seemed to fix on something with a keenness that made 
them glitter like a basilisk's, and he seemed to devour the 
very paper. — " The deuce ! the lady found dead — head against 
bed-post; diamond and treacle-pot, and — a fellow in drab sus- 
pected : — a hundred pounds reward ! Lord bless us ! a 
hundred pounds ! The man about sixty — middle size — old 
drab suit — melancholy aspect — deep ruddy complexion. 



228 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

The old rascal ! — a hundred pounds ! If one could but drop 
upon such a prize, now. Thought to be in London — in 
London ! — well " Here he looked at Meldrum, who cer- 
tainly did not answer to the description, either by a ruddy 
complexion or old drab suit ; but, thunderstruck at the con- 
firmation of his fears, that the old lady was dead, that 
murder was on his soul, and that he was suspected, and his 
retreat so truly surmised, he imagined that Brassington saw 
as clearly as daylight that he had the criminal before him, 
and the hundred pounds in his grasp. Hell could have no 
worse torture than he endured. His head seemed to have a 
legion of devils in it ; his heart was clutched, as if by the 
hand of the arch-fiend himself, with a deadly, heavy, un- 
imaginable agony ; his limbs were petrified, and yet on fire. 
If the earth would but swallow him up ! and yet at the 
thought of it he sprang up in a terror which unlocked his 
enchained powers, and, rushing past Brassington, darted 
down the stairs. At that action, the whole truth, which, 
spite of Meldrum' s fancy, had never yet dawned on Brassing- 
ton's greedy mind, flashed across it, and shrieking, — " Stop 
him ! stop him ! — the murderer, the — " he sprang after him. 
The women in the different rooms rushed to the doors, 
some with half clad infants in their arms, (all the men were 
gone out,) and, as they saw the two men going almost head- 
long down the stairs, they screamed amazed, and the 
children screamed in still higher terror. But the whole was 
gone past in a moment : in the next, they heard a scuffle, 
the banging of the front-door, and, by the time they reached 
the ground-floor, they found the front-door locked from the 
outside, and Brassington locked in his own room ; and dis- 
covered him when they opened it, prostrate on the floor, 
and bleeding copiously from the nose. 

The murderer had escaped by an exercise of presence of 
mind in the midst of his desperation that appeared wonder- 
ful ; and this raised the opinion of the villain for strength, 
courage, and audacity, in the whole house, to an extraordi- 
nary pitch, though nobody suspected who it was, except 
Brassington himself. But there he was, in London, in the 
immediate neighbourhood. Brassington knew it, and the 
moment that he recovered from the effects of his fall he set 
out in pursuit. A hundred pounds ! and the fellow just 



THE MELDET7M FAMILY. 229 

now in his hands, and gone ! It was distraction. He was 
bent on having hiin again : he raised no hue and cry, how- 
ever ; he gave no one any idea of this being the advertised 
murderer ; he said only that he had robbed him ; and he 
determined to hunt him from end to end of London. No- 
body but he knew that Meldrum had assumed the dress of a 
sailor. The police were on the look-out for a man in drab. 
He chuckled to himself over their delusion. The game was 
his, if anybody's ; and cupidity and revenge urged him 
vehemently to the pursuit. 



CHAPTEE V. 



OX WHAT HAPPENED TO JOE BATES, AND HOW CAPTAIN CEICK AND HIS 
LADY DEPENDED THEMSELVES, AND EINALLT LEFT TWIGG'S HOUSES. 

But while this pursuit is going on, we must take up a 
thread that we have let fall, and wind up the story of Joe 
Bates. Joe had found his way, or rather had been shewn it, 
into Derby gaol. His offence was issuing a coin, which, 
though it bore the Queen's profile, had never really issued 
from her mint. In spending this money, he was obliging 
his friend and employer, Captain Crick ; for the dealings of 
Captain Crick were manifold. Joe having been safely 
lodged in Derby gaol to await his trial at the next county 
sessions, one day found another prisoner suddenly intro- 
duced into the cell. The turnkey said something about the 
crowded state of the prison, and that two men, whose offence 
was pretty much alike, could not very greatly corrupt each 
other's innocence, and added jocularly, that as they had every 
prospect of making the same foreign tour together, it might 
be no harm for them to make a degree of acquaintance. 

The new prisoner appeared overwhelmed with his fate. 
He lay and wept and wrung his hands in great distress. 
Bates endeavoured to enter into conversation with him, and 
to elicit the nature and extent of his offence, but this for 
some time was totally unavailing. The prisoner was too 
much occupied with his trouble to notice the advances of 
Bates. At length, however, the storm of his grief somewhat 
abated, and then Bates drew from him that he was incar- 
cerated for an offence similar to his own. On this, Bates 
expressed wonder at his extreme sorrow ; told him that he 
was not yet sure that he would be convicted, and if he were, 
why a voyage to the southern hemisphere, the then punish- 
ment, was rather a thing to be desired than afflicted at. 

The two prisoners, whom a similarity of offence drew 
towards each other, soon advanced to a degree of familiarity, 
compared their experience, and spoke of the qualities of the 
coin they had been industriously circulating. Bates soon 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 231 

4 

convinced himself that his new associate had gone to a very 
inferior manufactory, and gave him the address of the one 
where he had been supplied. He promised him that if he 
escaped conviction, and went out into society again, he 
would find the coin of this house so admirably executed as 
to add immensely to the safety of the circulators. 

The next day, the turnkey, to Bates' great mortification, 
said they had now made room for the other prisoner in 
another part of the gaol, and had him removed. The object 
of the turnkey, and the prisoner too, had, in fact, been 
served. The prisoner was no more than the head of the 
town police, whom we call, for convenience, Harper. The 
magistrates, struck with the singularly fine execution of the 
coin that Bates had been distributing through the country, 
and aware that this was certain to give it an extraordinary 
diffusion, were anxious to detect the makers, and had hit 
upon this stratagem. Harper, elated with his success with 
Bates, lost no time in entering the train, and steaming away 
to Birmingham. Arrived not only in that town, but in that 
obscure street, and before the tall and narrow house indi- 
cated, he rang the bell, and announced that he had called on 
private business, and by the recommendation of Bates. He 
was soon in the presence of the man of the house, and gave 
his order for a considerable quantity of coinage of various 
values. Successful to the utmost extent of any reasonable 
and prudent policeman's ambition, he was now, however, 
prompted to a dangerous experiment. He expressed himself 
in the most enraptured terms of the beauty and perfection 
of the coinage ; so much so, that he declared, if it were not 
too great a favour to ask, he should extremely like to see 
the machinery by which they executed it. The coiner gave 
an immediate and most polite assent, as he said, to one who 
came recommended from such a quarter that he was sure 
he might put confidence in him. Harper was, therefore, 
conducted upstairs to the very top of the house, three or 
four stories. Here he was shown the ingenious machinery, 
the dies and other apparatus for the work, and while he was 
intently engaged in examining these, the floor suddenly gave 
way beneath his feet ; clap, clap, went one trap door after 
another over his head, and he fell bruised and senseless upon 
a floor below. 



232 THE MELDEFM FAMILY. 

How long the victim of an imprudent curiosity remained 
unconscious neither he or we are aware of, but of this he 
was most acutely sensible, that he was bruised and wounded 
most dreadfully. He was sore and stiff all over. He could 
feel that his head and face were clotted with congealed 
blood, and though no bones appeared to be broken, yet his 
whole frame was shaken till he felt only one great sore. 
The place in which he found himself was pitch dark, cold, 
and damp. The floor was of earth, and after groping round 
and round for a considerable time, he came to the conclusion 
that there was neither door nor window in it, except the 
trap-door by mhich he had descended into it. 

Cursing his folly, which, when he had acquired every 
necessary information to enable him to secure the coiner and 
all his machinery, had thus led him into this humiliating and 
serious scrape, he began to speculate on what was now his 
best policy. If he remained there he must perish ; if he 
cried out for aid it was only to his enemies, who might come 
and insult, and perhaps kill him. What was to prevent 
them murdering him and burying him in what appeared to 
be this underground dungeon ? Was he, in fact, in the 
same house in which he had fallen ? Might they not, in his 
state of insensibility, have conveyed him into some place 
where he could only escape through death ? 

This view of the matter excessively alarmed him. He 
rose and shouted with all his might. There was no answer 
— no one came to his rescue. He repeated his outcries till he 
grew hoarse and exhausted. His terror became excessive. 
To perish in all the horror of starvation, to be here in this 
damp, dark dungeon, and die of hunger and cold, the 
prospect was terrific. In a state of the most frightful 
anguish, he again raised his voice, and actually howled for 
help. None came. He then groped around the place once 
more, and over every part of the floor, to find anything by 
which he might knock on the floor or roof above. He 
found only some bundles of straw, which had probably been 
laid so that any one whom it was found necessary to de- 
spatch through the trap-door might not be dashed to pieces. 
From this discovery he drew for a moment a degree of con- 
solation. They did not, it would seem, want entirely to kill 
their victim, or why lay the straw ? It was also pretty 



THE MELDETTM FAMILY. 233 

certain from this that he was still in the cellar of the very 
house of the coiner. 

But this source of comfort did not serve him long. It 
might only be meant to punish a prying enemy with a more 
cruel and excruciating death — that of the slow misery of 
starvation. Stung by this thought to a new sense of agony, 
he once more felt round and round his dungeon, and in this 
search he found a brick-bat partly loose in the wall, which, 
with the aid of his knife, he managed completely to loosen 
and dig out. Armed with this, he recommenced his cries, 
and accompanied them with almost incessant knockings on 
the walls of his prison. He continued this, but without any 
apparent effect, till he became utterly exhausted, and sinking 
down on the straw, he slept. How long he slept he could 
form no idea, nor of the time he had now been immured in 
that horrible place ; but he felt his strength sensibly de- 
creasing, and his hunger and thirst become torturing almost 
beyond endurance. The persuasion that his enemies were 
resolved to suffer him to perish here, filled him with a deadly 
despair. He flung himself one moment down on the floor 
with a frantic desire to die at once. Then he grew some- 
what calm, and prayed to God for deliverance ; and then he 
thought of his wife and children at home, and wept and tore 
his hair. Then he sprang up again and groped after his 
brick-bat, and could not find it. A strange terror and con- 
fusion rushed on his brain. He clung to the idea of the 
brick-bat as to the hope of his salvation, and then a terrible 
idea seized him. His enemies had descended while he slept s: 
and taken it away ! They did mean him to perish by inches, 
and were afraid he should make the people of one of the ad- 
joining houses hear him. Horrible wretches ! But he would 
still defeat them. He rushed to the wall, and groping 
round and round, at length found the old hole whence he 
had dug the former brick-bat. Here he cut away the mortar 
with the eagerness of a man labouring for life ; but he did 
not succeed ; the brick remained fast, as if secured by the 
whole superincumbent house. Once more he turned, half- 
despairing, and searched the floor with his hand. He found 
it ! The brick-bat lay close to the straw where he had lain 
down. 

With this he once more commenced his knockings. He 



234 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

knew that two of the walls must adjoin the next houses — if 
he could but know which. To make sure, however, he 
laboured at all in turn, and bitter tears and groans accom- 
panied his knockings, as he felt his vigour decline, and 
doubted whether it were possible even for any one in the 
next houses to hear his now enfeebled cries and blows. 

At length — did he deceive himself, or did he really hear 
faint voices ? It seemed clear to him that he did ; faint, 
but eager voices, as if beyond the wall, deadened by its 
thickness, yet not so much so as to extinguish that character 
of intensity which was excited by wonder and human sym- 
pathy. He listned — knocked again — he raised his strongest 
cry — there again ! — they were certainly voices, and they 
seemed in answer to his knockings. Hark ! there was a 
sound as of a crowd above ! — yes, there were footsteps over 
his head — there were people in active talk — there was a 
call — he shouted back — there was a burst of voices in simul- 
taneous recognition. Again a call ; again he replied ; the 
same burst of conversation ; and now he heard them imme- 
diately over his head. 

" Where are you ?" some one cried. 

" Here !" he answered ; "here in the dark below." 

" Great G-od !" exclaimed a manly voice ; and presently the 
light flashed in on his head, so as to dazzle him, and compel 
him to close his eyes. He was silent a moment under the 
effect of this, and then some one called down : — 

" Is some one there ?" 

" Yes." 

" "Who are you ?" 

" Ah ! that you know !" replied Harper ; " the unfortunate 
man that you let fall through your trap-door. For God's 
sake help me out ! I have surely suffered enough." 

There was an active conversation above ; then a ladder 
was put down, and Harper with some difficulty managed to 
mount up it, and by the help of several eager hands put 
down to lay hold of him, he emerged into the daylight. 

There was a general exclamation of surprise and horror, 
as the figure of a man, covered with dirt, with bruises black 
and extensive, and with head and hair all clotted and 
matted with dry blood, rose from the trap-doorway of the 
cellar. All were zealously inqusitive to know how he had 






THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 235 

come into that place and condition ; but Harper was not all 
at once able to satisfy their curiosity, for a sickening sen- 
sation seized him, and he fainted away. On recovering his 
consciousness, he understood that the persons who rescued 
him were the inhabitants of the two adjoining houses, who, 
seeing the house suddenly shut up, had fancied that they 
still heard cries and hollow knockings from some one within. 
The members of one family had at length called those of the 
other to listen, and satisfied of the true evidence of their 
senses, they had resolved to inform the landlord, who came 
and forced a way into the house. The result was as we have 
related it ; and when these deliverers heard What the 
character of the former tenants of this house had been, and 
who and what Harper and his errand were, they were no 
little struck with the circumstances, and only wondered to 
find the policeman alive. The coiners had, they informed 
him, decamped three days ago — for so long had the house 
been closed. 

It is almost needless to say that Harper received every 
kindness and hospitality so requisite to his condition, and a 
few days afterwards he reappeared on duty with his head 
well plaistered and bandaged, and no little mortified that 
his overdoing the well-done had so entirely reversed the 
success of his enterprise, and occasioned him so severe, and 
yet ludicrous a disaster. 

But this was not the final result of Bates's imprisonment, 
and Harper's pretended incarceration in Bates's cell. At 
the same moment that Harper left for Birmingham, two 
active officers set out to visit Captain Crick, whose concern 
in the coinage speculation had transpired at the same time. 
It turned out, in fact, that the captain was the great head 
and mainspring of the business, and that he had his emis- 
saries and distributors all over the kingdom. 

The captain was, therefore, one night, just about retiring 
to bed ; the house was closed, and every guest of the 
evening had gone away, when a knock came to the door, and 
on the captain opening it, four tall and strong-built men 
entered. No sooner was the entrance effected, when, ascer- 
taining that the person who admitted them was the captain 
himself, they at once assured him that he was their pri- 
soner — they being officers of the police sent to seize him. 



236 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

Any one who had seen Captain Crick for the first time 
must have felt instantly that he was not aman to yield tamely. 
The two, therefore, who appeared the principal officers, at 
the moment they announced their message, drew and pointed 
each a brace of pistols, and the two others raised their 
truncheons conspicuously. There was no time for delay, for 
the captain, who sat, as was his custom at such an hour, 
without his boots, and with his waistcoat unbuttoned, 
seizing a strong wooden-bottomed chair, incontinently pro- 
truded it into the faces of the two officers in front, and 
dashing forward with all his weight and force, drove them 
back with astonishment on their two followers, who were 
pushing rudely against the wall. All was in a moment 
clamour and confusion. Mrs. Crick, who, at the entrance 
of these unwelcome guests, was in the act of filling the 
warming-pan with hot embers, on seeing the commencement 
of the fray, rushed gallantly to the rescue, and elevating her 
copper weapon, discharged at once a heavy blow on the head 
of the officer on the right, and the whole contents of burn- 
ing cinders into his face and bosom. Still more astonished 
at this novel assault than at that of the captain, the officer 
burst forth into a perfect howl of pain and amazement, and 
firing one of his pistols in his fury, it dashed through the 
warming-pan, which was now raised high in the air, and 
preparing for a second descent — with a loud clangour, and 
smashed the glass and face of the clock against the wall, 
which added to the extraordinary din which now resounded 
through the house. The captain was still smiting forward 
with his chair, which served him at once as sword, bayonet, 
and shield, and, by his amazing strength and dexterity, 
astonished his assailants as much as Ulysses, on one memo- 
rable night, did the swarm of unwelcome guests in his palace. 
They who should have supported their superiors were ren- 
dered almost useless by being cooped up between the wall 
and the end of the settle, which stretched on towards the 
door from the very mantel-piece, so as to defend the flank of 
Captain Crick and his valiant wife. They made sundry 
desperate attempts to break through on their right side, 
where Mrs. Crick fought, but that stout Amazonian woman 
dealt her blows with such amazing vigour and effect, that 
she not only gave these fellows some very awkward knocks, 



THE MELDBTJM EAMILT. 237 

but brought the servant-maid from her bed, who appeared 
at the head of the stairs in her night-gown, and then fled 
back with a loud shriek. 

This may not seem a very satisfactory succour ; but we 
shall find that it proved so. The battle was now raging 
with the utmost fury, Two or three shots had been fired, 
but the officers, baffled by the chair and warming-pan, which 
were constantly dashed about before their faces, and some- 
times the foot of the chair sent with almost annihilating 
fury into the lower regions of their vitals, did not take any 
effective aim. The two inferiors, however, who had not been 
able to testify their valour, were now allowed to come for- 
ward, while the principal officers reloaded their pistols, and 
seizing the foot of the captain's chair, one of them was about 
to wrest it, if possible, from him, while the other aimed a 
blow with his truncheon at his head. At this moment one 
of the other officers rushed forward, and aimed a pistol at 
the captain ; but at the same instant, Arpthorp, the sturdy 
hostler, roused by the maid, and his access facilitated by the 
bridge, descended the stairs almost at one leap, and with a 
poker which he carried, struck the officer such a blow on the 
arm, that the pistol fiew from his grasp, and discharged 
itself in its fall, while the limb that held it dropped power- 
less at the officer's side. 

Now, then, the melee was renewed with obvious advan- 
tage to the Crick troop. Mrs. Crick, who had effectually 
battered the warming-pan to pieces on the heads of the 
officers, with occasional resounding blows on walls and 
staircase, rushed to the fire, hauled thence a large tea 
kettle, called a tea-kitchen, which always stood with boiling 
water, not only for tea, but for supplying gin and brandy 
glasses, now discharged the contents of this as freely as she 
had done those of the warming-pan. It was more than 
mortal men could endure. The enemy recoiled. The 
captain and Arpthorp, each armed with a poker, now fol- 
lowed up their advantage, and another moment saw the foe 
evacuate the house. The captain and his man following 
close on their heels, the instant that they reached the open 
air raised a loud war-whoop, which brought from their 
houses numbers of the vagabond tribe who conveniently 



Zdti THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

sleep in their clothes, and are ready to take the field with- 
out unnecessary delay. Numbers, in fact, were already in 
the street, roused by the sound of fire-arms and the 
clangour of the battle; and another minute would have 
brought them into the rear of the official Philistines. These 
now seeing their precarious position mounted their horses 
with all speed, and galloped off, pursued by the yells and im- 
precations of the elite of Twigg's Houses. 

Thus ended the attempt to seize upon Captain Crick. 
The manner in which he and his man A rpthorp had defended 
themselves sufficiently convinced the police that they both 
uad seen service of no ordinary kind, and knew how to 
Qandle their weapons to the utmost advantage. The next 
day brought a much stronger body of police from London : 
but the birds were flown. The captain, his courageous 
wife, man, and maid, had disappeared, The house was 
closed, and all search after the fugitives was vain. It was 
imagined that the captain had made a heavy sacrifice of 
property by thus being compelled to flee, but when the 
government attempted to levy fines on the estate of Twigg's 
Houses for the captain's offence against the excise and other 
laws, it was found that Twigg's Houses were mortgaged to 
the uttermost farthing, and that the captain was too much 
a man of the world to leave any eggs in a nest which he 
might be called on at a minute's warning to desert. 

We have heard from good authority, that the captain, his 
lady, his man Arpthorp, and all Arp thorp's family, betook 
themselves to Australia, where Joe Bates, who was shipped 
thither by government, was applied for by the captain on 
Joe's arrival, and was awarded to him as a convict servant. 
The whole of this notorious company were for some time 
located on the broad plain of Australia Felix, where they 
ranged for scores of miles with their flocks and herds, and 
were noted for their dexterity in putting the captain's brand 
on their neighbours' stray cattle. This adroitness might 
possibly have occasioned the captain and his clan, some day, 
to have retreated some hundreds of miles into the interior, 
with as much speed as he evacuated Twigg's Houses ; but 
the terror of his name, and that of his band, was, on the 
other hand, a strong bulwark against the inroads of the 



THE MELDBTTM TAMILT. 239 

Datives, and the loss of a few bullocks, which mysteriously 
changed their ownership, was winked at, to avoid the greater 
loss of property, and even life, from the hands of these 
marauding aborigines. Since then, it is more than probable 
that the captain and his band might be found at the diggings 
either of Ballarat or Mount Alexander, the life and adven- 
tures of which would suit him better than the patriarchal 
one of a shepherd. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE AVENGING ANGEL.— MELDETTM FINDS AN OASIS IN THE DESEET, 
AND IS EOUND BY AN ANGEL OF MEECT. 

Meldeum, on escaping from the house of Brassington, made 
his way through various streets, alleys, and obscure turnings, 
to a considerable distance. After perceiving no immediate 
pursuit, he relaxed his pace so as to avoid all appearance of 
hurry or suspicious agitation ; and the further he went, the 
greater was his confidence in eluding his pursuers for the 
moment. That he could long escape he scarcely hoped. 
The fulness of his crime had been now revealed to him by 
the newspaper which Brassington had read. He was not 
only a thief, but a murderer. True, he was ready in some 
degree to excuse himself on the latter score, by saying that 
he had no intention of killing the old lady. 3t was rather 
an accident than a purpose : but then, conscience cried, 
" "What business had he there ?" The crime of house-breaking 
had produced this second and more deadly sin. "With the 
revelation of the guilt of blood all the former faith of the 
wretched man revived in his soul, spite of every reason and 
sophistic argument, with the force of an eternal conviction. 
God and nature triumphed over him, and flung him down 
into the abyss of remorse and torturing terror. Heaven, 
hell, and a terrible immortality, were shouted into his soul 
as by a thousand crowding demons. Death he would gladly 
have plunged into, to avoid death linked to public shame — to 
quench the fury of his own racking consciousness ; but death 
frightened him back with the vision of a flaming gulph, 
into which he would only leap if he leapt from earth. 
Between these terrors of the present and the future he 
seemed crushed as between two millstones, and his knees 
knocked against each other, and the cold sweat streamed 
down his face as he went along. He paused in one place, 
and grasped a post to keep him from falling. A fellow going 
past said — 



THE MEDETJM FAMILY. 24.1 

" "Well, old boy, that's pretty early in the morning for a 
priming!" and went on with a grin. 

Meldrum roused himself to proceed. Like the devils, he 
believed and trembled ; and of all the forms of misery that 
the wide and miserable earth can furnish, there was not, that 
day, one which could surpass, in the agony and bloody 
sweat of mental torture, that of the murderer Meldrum. 

But about noon the miserable man found himself in the 
midst of a dense mass of houses lying between the RatclhT- 
highway and the Commercial-road. He was in a little street 
that seemed involved in such a labyrinth of other close 
streets that he could hope to find no place in London more 
obscure. Here, in a row of houses of much older aspect 
than many of the rest, he spied a paper in a window an- 
nouncing a room to let. The house in which this was was 
one of three stories, or more properly two, with an attic in 
the roof. Each story had one widish horizontal window, that 
in the roof a dormer one. In the lowest window, which 
was filled with geraniums, trained on a sort of a ladder, 
and of such a size that they seemed to fill evesy inch of 
the window space, was hung in the centre this card of 
announcement to let. 

Meldrum surveyed the house for some minutes, looked 
round at the character of the street, and ventured at length to 
knock at the door and ask the price of the room. The house 
had an air of superior neatness to any of the rest. They 
were aH conspicuous for their dingy old brick-work — their 
long unpainted and dilapidated wood-work, and their 
broken windows supplied with paper panes. This house 
was neatly painted, and its panes not only of glass, but 
sound and bright. There was nothing which it had in 
common with the rest but its style of build, its age, and its 
having two or three birds hung in cages out of the chamber 
window ; for nothing is so extraordinary as the number of 
birds kept by the lowest and most miserable population of 
London. Bird-cages, filth, and swarms of unemployed and 
squalid people — men, women, and children — are the great 
features of the worst districts of this human wilderness. 

The door was opened by a young woman as bright and 
cheery-looking as the house. Meldrum half shrunk back at 
such a vision of innocence and happiness ; but the young 

E 



242 THE MELDEUM EAMILT. 

woman, after giving Mm an enquiring look, asked him what 
he wanted, and without hesitation led him up to the attic ; 
told him the price, — two shillings a-week ; and on his saying 
he would have it, took him down again, and calling out " Mrs. 
Brentnal !" an elderly and grave woman came to the door of 
the sitting-room. Meldrum's wish being stated to the 
elderly dame, she scrutinized him somewhat severely, and 
questioned him as to who and whence he was. Meldrum re- 
presented himself as a countryman without work, trying to 
get it about the docks. The old woman made obstacles : said 
she was very particular in the lodgers she took in, and never 
liked one who could not give a near reference. It was 
plain to Meldrum that she took an unfavourable view of 
him. He was evidently much cast down by it, and saying 
he could give no reference that would be in time to serve 
him, had his foot on the doorstep to go out, when the 
young woman whispered something to the other, and was 
apparently pleading for him. He heard the old dame say, — 
" Better not, Nancy ; better not !" But the young woman 
did not give way, and the old one said, " Well, well, as you 
will — only mind what I say, one day you will have to repent 
of being so easy ;" and turning to Meldrum, she added, 
" Well, man, you can have the room for this week, and we 
shall see." 

Installed in his attic, if Meldrum had had an easy con- 
science he would have thought himself in paradise : all was 
so neat and clean. He soon had a fire burning, and had 
arranged to have his meals with the inmates at a certain 
price. He had kept his old great coat closely buttoned over 
his sailor's dress, and towards evening he went out and 
purchased a suit of strong clothes, jacket and trowsers, and 
a short white slop fit for a porter or workman about the 
docks. His sailor's suit he carefully conveyed away, and 
disposed of at a pawnbroker's in a distant locality ; and 
it was well, for he soon found that he was in a sailor's 
house. 

The bright and handsome little woman who had first let 
him in was the wife of a sailor, honest John Tulloch, now on 
his regular voyage to the coast of Africa for gum. His 
wife, this happy-looking creature, was the soul of this little 
house. It was she who had brightened up its inside and its 



THE HELDRTTM FAMILY. 243 

outside ; had cultivated the plauts, and purchased the birds, 
and made everything as clean as if the abode stood out in the 
fields of the country, instead of in this dense and smoky part 
of the huge Babylon. She had two children ; one a fine sturdy 
lad of some three or four years old, and a little child that 
crawled about over the carpet, and was every now and then 
snatched up by its mother and half smothered with kisses, 
and tossed and shaken about till it laughed as merrily as the 
blithe mother herself. Mrs. Tulloch, or Nancy Tulloch, as 
the old woman called her, was the very soul of sunshiny 
happiness. She was always working and singing, or singing 
and talking to her children and the old woman. She was 
planning this and that against uncle John came home ; which 
uncle John was no other than her own husband. "What was 
odd enough was, that the old woman called him uncle John 
too ; and it was some time before Meldrum discovered the 
reason, which was no other than that John Tulloch had a 
brother living across the water, in Rotherhithe, a plumber 
and glazier, where John Tulloch had first been called by this 
name amongst the numerous children with whom he was an 
immense favourite, always bringing them something in his 
capacious jacket pockets, and telling them the wonders he 
saw in his voyages, and on the barbarous shores where his 
ship's business took him. John Tulloch had been brought 
up to the trade of plumber and glazier himself, and during 
the time his ship lay in port he used to go and work for 
his brother, who was in a considerable way of business. 

Nancy Tulloch, who seemed to adore her uncle John, that 
is, her husband, was always keeping things in order, and 
setting them in order, all the time he was away, in the pros- 
pect of his return. He usually made a voyage to Senegal 
and back in five or six months, and then lay in port a month 
or more, and off again, and it seemed the desire of his wife to 
crowd into the month's stay as much pleasure and affection 
as should make up for the five months' absence. The little 
sitting-room was snug as carpets, chests of drawers, looking- 
glasses, and little pictures, could make it. She called it her 
cottage,her retreat; and theold woman sat and knit in acorner, 
between the fireplace and the window full of its geraniums, 
in a tall -backed Windsor chair, with a cushion of scarlet stuff. 
Meldrum soon found that he had got into a little heaven 
uponearth, which only the more pointed andaggravatedhisown 



244 THE MELDEUM EAMILT. 

foul misery. Nancy Tulloch, you would have thought, had 
never known anything of the cares or blights of this world. 
She seemed all happiness, cheerfulness, kindness, and sym- 
pathy. Shewas benton helping Meldrum to some employment. 
She asked him about his past life, and soon saw that there was 
something on his mind that he did not wish should come to 
daylight : but this only seemed to increase her desire to help 
him. She told him if a man like him was in earnest he 
would, before long, get something to do ; and hoped he was 
religious. At this Meldrum shook his head and was silent. 
Mrs. Tulloch looked at him with more seriousness than she 
had ever yet assumed ; and the old dame, Mrs. Brentnal, 
gave him a searching glance that went to the bottom of his 
dark heart, for it told him that she still had suspicions of 
him. 

But Nancy Tulloch's interest only rose in his behalf: she 
told him that if he was not religious she hoped he would 
become so, and invited him to accompany them on Sunday 
to hear a preacher in their own court — Mr. Zealous Scatter- 
good, whom she represented as one of the excellent of the 
earth, a poor man's preacher, and none of your grand men 
that were too grand to follow their Divine Master, and preach 
to the needy and the very outcast. 

Meldrum, who went by the name of Jabez Baxter, was 
silent, and did not give much encouragement to these invi- 
tations, for he had only too many reasons for wishing to avoid 
the crowd of a chapel and the searching queries of a minister. 
Every hour that he witnessed the goodness and the happiness 
of the two women of this house, and listened to their con- 
versation, only the more drove the daggers of remorse deeper 
into his soul. He was like one of the damned who had in- 
truded amongst the children of Grod, and expected every 
moment to be struck down by a thunderbolt, and cast out 
with shame. He avoided, therefore, as much as possible, 
spending any time, except at his meals, with them. He 
went out cautiously on pretence of seeking work, and 
traversed the vast human desert that stretched around. On 
one of these occasions he discovered his son Job at a butcher's 
shop in Whitechapel. He was a rosy and jolly-looking 
fellow, as gaily serving his master's customers in his blue 
coat and white sleeves as if he had known nothing in life 
but plain sailing and sunny weather. Meldrum felt a strong 



THE MELDBTJM FAMILY. 245 

desire to go up to him and make himself known, and enquire 
after Sampson and Dinah : but it was not till he had gone 
there again and again that he could muster up courage. 
His crimes lay heavily on him ; and though he knew that 
Job, as well as the rest of his children, had imbibed the 
worst infidel notions, he was struck with horror at the 
very possibility of their knowing his real deeds, and of their 
upbraiding him with them. 

One evening, however, watching his opportunity, when 
no customers were about, and Job with his knife in his 
hand had gone across the broad pavement, and stood on 
the kurbstone as if contemplating the omnibuses and other 
vehicles driving along the middle of the street, the wretched 
father approached ; and standing near the son, said, " Job ! 
don't you know me?" 

The young butcher turned, and looking at the strange man 
for a moment, said, " Know you ! how the devil should I 

know you ? But the ! what !" he added, staring 

in a horrified astonishment — " is it you ? What !" — and for 
a moment the power of utterance seemed taken from him — 
" the devil ! do you venture to show yourself in the light ? 
By all the powers alive, man — for father I won't call you — 
begone ! never show yourself again here ; or I'll stick this 
knife mto you as soon as look at you." 

Meldrum would have spoken, but the son motioned him 
with a quick movement of the hand holding the knife to be 
off: " Begone !" he repeated, " this moment ! There are foul 
suspicions about you — and" — coming close to his ear — " I 
believe them ; and I will be the first to give you up if ever 
you come near me again !" 

"But, for the mercy of Grod!" implored Meldrum, "tell 
me something; just a word about Dinah and Sampson." 

" Begone, I say, quick ! I can tell you nothing that you'll 

like to hear. They curse you, and wish you at the d 1 ; 

and there you'll be pretty soon if you come and ruin us with 
your Satan's presence." 

The young man went hastily away into the shop whistling, 
but it was angrily, as he went ; and Meldrum stole away 
with the torment of the damned in his bosom. He was hated 
and cursed by his own children ; and yet he dared to pollute 
with his daily presence the bode of the virtuous and the 



246 THE MELDRUM EAMILY. 

happy. The very next time that he passed the butcher's 
shop in Whitechapel he missed his son: he went again and 
again ; he was never there. It was clear that he had suddenly- 
quitted his place to avoid any further recognition of this 
abhorred parent. Meldrum ventured to approach the shop 
and enquire. The boy in the shop knew no such person as 
Job Meldrum ; there had never been any such name there ; 
but a young fellow of the name of Flint had gone off at a 
moment's notice, and they could not tell where. The very 
name of Meldrum was shunned : it was a vile badge that his 
children had renounced as they did him. 

The whole sum of money which Meldrum had got by 
robbing the old lady was but fifteen sovereigns. He had 
purchased two suits of clothes and a great coat out of it : it 
was fast diminishing ; and he began to tremble at the idea of 
being compelled to work in company, where any moment he 
might be detected and seized. To add to his horror, his 
old drab suit, which he had sunk in the Thames, had been 
rolled up with the tide and left on the strand, not far from 
King Edward's Stairs, a considerable height above the place 
where he had flung them in. Whether they had been 
caught by the anchor of some vessel, or how they had been 
dragged up the stream, was a mystery ; but there they were 
found, unrolled, and soon conveyed to the nearest police- 
station, where they were hung on a line in the court, and a 
notice of the fact inserted in the newspapers. The notice 
attracted the eye of old Brassington, who hastened to see 
them, and putting one thing to another was convinced that 
they were the very drab suit of Meldrum, the Berkshire 
murderer. The belief became also strong amongst the police, 
and the situation of Meldrum was growing desperate. His 
funds were ebbing, his identity coming ever nearer to the 
light ; he began to think seriously of going off into the 
country, and leaving London as far as possible behind. 

In the meantime Nancy Tulloch did not abate in her 
desire to serve him, in her endeavours to get him to the 
chapel of Zealous Scattergood, or to dive somewhat more 
deeply into his real history. She did a deal of needlework 
for a house in the city, and she told him that she had been 
enquiring, and with some hope of success, for some employ- 
ment in the warehouse : for it was that of a manufacturer. 



THE MELDEUM EAMILT. 247 

Meldrum shrunk into himself at the very idea, and as care- 
fully avoided the chapel of Zealous Scattergood. In the 
conversation with Mrs. Tulloch he did not conceal that he 
had a heavy weight on his mind — that he did not believe he 
would be saved — that he had, in fact, a degree of blood- 
guiltiness on his conscience ; though he led them to believe 
that it was incurred in some affray with poachers. 

All this, though it seemed to close the heart of the old 
dame, Mrs. Brentnal, against him — though her countenance 
grew more severe, and her manner more cold and distant — 
only served the more to excite the sympathy of kind Nancy 
Tulloch, and her zeal to bring him into the way of what she 
termed saving grace. For this purpose she would often of 
an evening, when Mrs. Brentnal was gone to see a neighbour, 
and the children were in bed, set to and attack Meldrum 
with all the force of her gentle and kindly zeal. She would 
tell him that there was no sinner so great nor so foul that he 
might not be saved : that she was sure if he could see Mr. 
Scattergood, and open his heart to him, he would soon have 
hope, and become a happy man. Her own good little soul 
seemed to expand and embrace on behalf of the Deity all that 
was fallen and miserable. Meldrum would put his hands to his 
face, and resting his elbows on his knees, weep like a child ; 
but for all that he never seemed nearer consenting to enter 
the chapel or to seeing Zealous Scattergood. His prospects 
seemed closing in London — he was contemplating a sudden 
start and a long run : yet he did not seem as if he could cut 
himself loose from this spot, and carry his project into exe- 
cution. 

One day when he came down to tea he was somewhat 
startled to find a stranger there. This was startling to him, 
because he had begged Mrs. Tulloch when they had any one 
to let him know, that he might keep away. The stranger was 
an old man of at least seventy. He was remarkably thin, and 
his face was long, pale, and emaciated ; his eyes large and grey, 
beneath grey shaggy eyebrows, and his hair as white as snow. 
As Meldrum entered he fixed his large grey eyes on him ; 
and coming forward with a faint smile offered Meldrum his 
hand, saying, " "Well, friend Baxter, as Mrs. Tulloch tells me 
she cannot prevail on you to come and see me I have come 



248 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

to see you. I hope we shall became friends when we know 
each other." 

It was Zealous Scattergood ; Meldrum felt it in an instant, 
even before Mrs. Tulloch pronounced his name. A strong 
sensation went through him. The worn black suit of the old 
minister, his manner, his deep bass voice, and peculiar into- 
nation, all brought back people, things, and days long 
gone, and cut off by subsequent events as by an impassable 
gulph from the present. Meldrum seated himself without a 
word, and listened to the religious conversation that went 
on between the others, as a doomed spirit may be supposed 
to listen. Every word was a pang to him. He believed 
now, but he believed without hope. He seemed to lift his 
eyes like Dives, from a region of flame, and see afar off the 
shining promontory of heaven, and his wife and former 
friends walking there and shedding celestial tears over his 
fall. He ventured only once or twice to raise his eyes to 
the countenance of the minister, and when his eyes met 
those of the old man, his evidently turned away as in fear 
of him. It was a hopeless and a miserable scene, and Mel- 
drum got away as soon as he could. 

The guilty man resolved to hasten his departure from this 
torturing place ; yet he still lingered. He once stole quietly 
on the Sunday evening down to the bottom of the court, and 
sent a glance into the chapel where Zealous Scattergood was 
preaching, and where Mrs. Brentnal and Nancy Tulloch 
were listeners. 

The chapel was merely the last house in the row, con- 
verted into a chapel. It was of the humblest description, 
The preacher's pulpit consisted of a large packing-case, laid 
lengthwise on the floor, in the farthest corner of the apart- 
ment, with a small table in front for a reading-desk, and a 
chair set in the corner for the preacher occasionally to rest 
upon. The floor was occupied by plain benches, crowded 
with people, and the bare walls were furnished with the 
simplest tin candlesticks for lighting up the place. By the 
door stood a broad board as a sort of screen, and looking 
from behind this, and protected by this part of the chapel 
being in deep shadow, Meldrum could survey the whole 
scene unobserved. 

The old, thin, and melancholy preacher had just risen to 



THE MELDETJM PAMILT. 249 

commence his sermon. He stood -with his Bible in his hand, 
and casting a solemn glance over his humble audience he 
said, — " In the book of the Prophet Jeremiah, in the twelfth 
chapter, and twenty-fifth verse, you will find these words : — 
' And I will give thee into the hand of them that seek thy life, 
and into the hand of them whose face thou fearest.' " The 
words fell like an ice-bolt on the heart of Meldrum : his 
knees trembled, but he stood rooted to the spot ; and the 
preacher, solemn and slow at first, went on in his deep voice 
to describe the state and progress of a sinner, which did not 
seem to bear much resemblance or application to the case of 
Meldrum. But anon, the spirit of the old man kindled 
within him : he grew warm and eager in his expressions, 
his features, and his gestures : he seemed to rise in height, 
and expand ; and his voice rolled like low thunder over the 
awe-struck and profoundly silent group, from which a 
sign or a groan only now and then escaped. He went 
on and described the fall of an apostate, his last state 
growing seven times worse than the first from which he 
had once been redeemed ; the demons of disbelief taking 
possession of his soul, and foul spirits of robbery and 
murder following after. The old man's eyes seemed to 
turn their gaze inward for a while. There was a glazed 
and a ghostly look about them : he stretched forth his 
hand over the audience, and seemed to describe some one 
whom he had once seen and known ; but it was Meldrum 
to the life. He described the height of peace and virtue 
from which he had fallen : he followed through dark and 
errant ways, and he shuddered as he described scenes of 
violence in which he had been engaged, and passed over 
others that were too horrible. The perspiration stood in 
large drops on his flushed and broad forehead, and suddenly 
recalling himself, as it were, from his inward trance, he 
paused, and wiped his heated forehead ; and gazing around 
on his audience, he asked in a voice suddenly dropped into a 
different key, — " My brethren, why is it that I have been 
thus led, as it were, into the life and the spirit of some other 
man ? "Why have this darkness and this horror been shed 
over me ? Can there be any one within hearing of my 
voice to whom this has been sent as a warning ? Can any one 
here have been tempted in this manner, and to ." He 



250 THE MELDRT7M FAMILY. 

again paused ; and as he again said, — " Let us change this 
subject — let us contemplate the goodness and the mercies of 
God" — the excited audience, as if suddenly relieved from 
the horrible oppression of a nightmare, drew a deep simul- 
taneous breath ; and as there was a general movement, as of 
relief from the tension of their feelings, they heard some one 
suddenly start from the door, and the broad figure of a man 
in the shadow was caught by the eyes of several as it hurried 
away. It was Meldrum, who, struck as with a judgment 
from heaven, was rushing away, to flee if possible from 
himself. 

From that hour no mortal power could have prevailed on 
the conscience-stricken criminal to approach the chapel of 
Zealous Scattergood. Never would he, if he could have 
helped it, see him or be near him : but not the less did 
Zealous seek him, and endeavour to enter into his mind, and 
breathe consolation into it. Sitting by his side in his little 
room, or below with Nancy Tulloch busy with her needle, 
and yet ever and anon casting glances of the most genuine 
interest at him and at the unhappy man that he would fain 
melt, and soften, and save, did the good old preacher, in the 
gentlest and most affectionate manner, reason with him, and 
lay before him all the infinite mercies and goodness of the 
Creator. In this intercourse he was as different as possible 
to what Meldrum had seen him in the pulpit. Here he was 
all humility and loving-kindness, and seemed to place him- 
self as low in his own estimation as the sinner, and exalt 
only the heavenly grace and charity. But to Meldrum this 
only brought agonies and despair : he believed himself 
beyond all redemption, and vowed a thousand times to fly 
from this place and people : yet still he lingered on. 

One day Nancy Tulloch caine with a nimble step and a 
glowing face up to his door as she returned from the city, 
and informed him that she had procured him work. He 
was to be porter at the warehouse of the great manufacturer 
for whose lady she did so much needlework. She had spoken 
of him both to the lady and her husband, and had interested 
them about him. She had told them she was sure some 
heavy sin lay on his heart : she believed it to be the death 
of a keeper : but she gave such a character of him, for the 
time she had seen him, that these good people, whose religion 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 251 

taught reformation and salvation, rather than vengeance and 
hopeless rejection, were quite willing to try him ; and now 
was the vacancy. 

Meldrum thanked his kind benefactor warmly, but shrunk 
from accepting the offered employment : he dreaded such a 
public employment as that of porter — who might not re- 
cognise him ? and then there was nothing for it but the 
gallows ! He thought a thousand times, — Oh, if he could 
but be condemned to some private cell and the most heavy 
labour, with what alacrity would he give himself up, and 
with what zeal would he spend his strength in the fulfilment 
of his doom ; but to be dragged before all the world to the 
accursed gallows ! No, he would rather suffer ten deaths, 
ran the risk of committing ten other crimes first. Yet, if he 
lied into the country what casual circumstance might not 
some day betray him ? What was to enable him to endure 
the torture that every day consumed his vitals ? Again 
he thought on the various means of self-destruction ; and 
again he shrunk — and finally dreaded the risk, and took the 
place offered him by Nancy Tulloch. 



CHAPTEE ¥11. 

THE HISTOEY OF ZEALOUS SCATTEEGOOD. 

Haying got Meldrum into such respectable employment, 
let us now take a somewhat closer view of the friends who 
thus interested themselves in his behalf. 

In the first place, the old preacher, Zealous Scattergood, 
was perhaps unlike any other man of his profession through- 
out Great Britain. He stood alone, both in character and 
position. Though he was a Baptist, yet he belonged not to 
that sect, held no communication with any of its ministers ; 
he pursued his way alone, and voluntarily sought out the 
poor and the neglected, and became their minister. There 
was scarcely a part of England in which he had not pursued 
his labours. He had been at work amongst the miners of 
Cornwall and the colliers of Durham, amongst the clod- 
hoppers of Wiltshire, and the stockingers of Nottingham. 
He might be truly called a wanderer and a sojourner, having 
no abiding city here. There were some parts of his history 
that no mortal could penetrate into ; but there was enough 
come to the light to shew that he had at one time, many 
years ago, been the happy head of a happy family. That 
family was now all dispersed or dead ; — he was a solitary 
pilgrim on the earth. There was a flitting, shadow-like 
character about him : he shrunk from the " broadway and 
the green " into the narrow paths, the obscurities of life : he 
avoided the wealthy and the proud, and seemed at home only 
amongst the poor, for whom he laboured incessantly, sub- 
sisting on a meagre pittance of their subscription. "With 
tastes of a high and refined order, and having read and 
thought much, yet he never seemed at ease amongst the 
wealthier classes who could better understand his higher 
tastes, and estimate his uncommon acquirements. If he 
unexpectedly found himself amongst them, he became silent, 



THE MELDRTJM FAMILY. 253 

sliut up, and as soon as possible stole quietly away. It was 
only when you could get him out into a country walk, or 
when in his pulpit, or labouring to enlighten the dark minds 
that only too thickly abound everywhere, that he seemed to 
forget a kind of timidity — a suspicion — an embarrassment 
— and become the man and the valiant Christian. 

More than one of our men of literary fame have come 
across this singular man, in one part or other of the country. 
They have met him with his " Quarles' Emblems," his 
" Milton" or " Herrick," in his hands, and have been 
equally astonished and delighted at the beauty of his con- 
versation and his enthusiastic love of nature. One poet has 
recorded such a meeting in verses which have fallen into 
our hands. 



TO ZEALOUS SCATTEROOOD. 

My friend ! there have been men 

To whom we turn again, 
After contemplating the present age, 

And long with vain regret 

That they were living yet, 
Virtue's high war triumphantly to wage. 

Men whose renown was built 

Is ot through resplendent guilt ; 
Not through life's waste, or the abuse of power; 

But by the dauntless zeal 

With which, at Truth's appeal, 
They stood, even to death, in some eventful hour. 

But he who now shall dream, 

Because amongst us seem 
No symptoms of a realm's decline, 

Wealth, mad with its excess, 

Mid far-diffused distress, 
And luxury sapping where it should refine. 

He who deems hence shall flow 

The utter overthrow 
Of this most famous and long happy land, 

Little knows he what lies, 

Even beneath his eyes, 
Slumbering in forms that round about him stand. 



254 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

Little knows he the zeal 

Myriads of spirits feel 
In love, pure principle, and knowledge strong : 

Little knows he what men 

Tread this dear land again, 
Whose unambitious hearts invigorate the throng. 

My friend ! I lay with thee 

Beneath the forest tree, 
When spring was shedding her first sweets around 5 

And the bright sky above 

Woke feelings of deep love 
And thoughts which soared into the blue profound. 

I lay — and as I heard 

The joyful faith thus stirred 
Poured in warm words from thy experienced breast, 

Such was the buoyant thought 

That in my bosom wrought, 
And rising in its strength, my native land I blest. 



It is easy to perceive from these stanzas what topics had 
occupied the rural musers ; but it is not so easy for any one 
who did not know him to imagine the zeal and eloquent 
ardour of the old man on such occasions. Once out in the 
fields and woods he was a boy again. He actually ran and 
leaped ; and some beautiful scene, some flower, as that of 
the blushing wilding in the early spring, would fill him with 
rapture, till the old Puritanic leaven of his sectarian educa- 
tion would make him fear lest it were sinful to be so happy. 
On one occasion, wandering in the Peak of Derbyshire, he 
met with a young evangelical clergyman in Dove Dale, and 
the young man, struck, as was no wonder, at the venerable 
aspect of the old pilgrim father, and seeing him gazing with 
evident enthusiasm on the different objects in that beautiful 
valley, entered into conversation with him, and was soon 
as much struck by his literary knowledge, his deep religious 
experience, and his profound love of the great and beautiful. 
The old man and the young traversed the whole Dale to- 
gether, and spent nearly the whole day in its caverns, sitting 
on the green sward beside its clear swift waters, engaged in 
absorbing talk on many topics of the life and prospects of 



THE MELDEUM EAM1LT. 255 

man ; and, ever and anon, again starting forward and noting 
the ever-changing and singular features of the place. To 
such a pitch of enthusiasm did they work themselves by these 
means, that they sung a hymn together in one cavern, knelt 
down and prayed together in another, and then by mutual 
agreement returned each to his own home, from the con- 
viction that they had filled themselves as full of spiritual and 
intellectual enjoyment as man was capable of, or as was 
good for him. 

Such was old Zealous Scattergood where he had only Grod 
and nature to stand face to face with, for he. knew that they 
are both charitable, and never misinterpret, and never in- 
dulge malice under the show of godly zeal. "With them, 
and some noble-hearted being in their presence, and where 
the voice of slander could not come, there was Zealous 
Scattergood bold, open, poetical, and wise. But meet him 
in the city — had this young clergyman met him there after- 
wards he would have seen with astonishment — the same old 
man timidly recognise his greeting, and as soon as possible 
steal away and begone. 

And how was this ? "What occasioned this extraordinary 
phenomenon ? It may be explained — and we have it in our 
power to explain it. Zealous Scattergood, in the course of 
a long life, had made one lapse in the path of strict recti- 
tude ; and its consequences pursued him, and he knew that 
they would pursue him to his grave. Bitterly had he re- 
pented of that one weak act, fervently and for years had he 
prayed the God of mercy and love to forgive this one error ; 
and believed that it was forgiven. Grod and Christ in his 
own heart had said to him long ago, — " Gro thy way and sin 
no more — thy sin is forgiven thee." But his fellow-men, 
each of whom had been bade, if without sin, to cast the first 
stone, had not. like the sinners of old, retired oshamed from 
the presence of the divine judge. Eull of sins themselves, 
they had not hesitated a moment each to fling his stone of 
accusation and injury, but they had continued to fling their 
stones to the last hour, whenever they could meet with him. 
Zealous Scattergood knew that the love- and faith-professing 
world would never cease to pursue him with its calumny, 
shaped as a righteous scorn, and he slunk away from before 
it, and sought to work amid the shadows of the earth, 



256 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

where he could at once hide himself and render them less 
black. 

Zealous Scattergood was educated for a Baptist minister. 
For many years he was located as the minister of a populous 
country village, and the hamlets around, to which he made 
his periodical visits. He was married, and had a numerous 
family. For some years he laboured and struggled on, but 
the long-continued sickness of his wife, and the necessity of 
getting his great boys out into trades, pressed on him to a 
degree that became insupportable. He had been compelled 
to borrow money of one of the members of his congregation, 
who, when he was least able to pay, came to have pressing 
need of it himself. Zealous was driven to despair : he 
looked round and pondered all means and prospects of help : 
he saw none. 

At this moment he resolved to look out for a better loca- 
tion. He conned the advertisements on the fly-leaves of 
their religious magazines, and saw that a pulpit was vacant 
in a populous town, and that a call was made for ministers 
to officiate on trial. There was, however, one serious ob- 
stacle — the vacancy was in an Independent congregation, 
and Zealous was a Baptist. It was a terrible temptation. 
In all points of religious faith the two sects were exactly 
alike, except in some particulars regarding the rite of Bap- 
tism. Zealous said to himself — " On every great moral and 
religious point I could preach to them from my heart ; and 
this baptismal difference — what is it ?" He hung upon the 
advantages of a higher salary, the more extended field of 
labour ; and the pressure of his necessities, more eloquent 
than a host of arguments, made him persuade himself that 
he could accept and conscientiously fulfil the office. He 
wavered, and he fell. He wrote to offer his services, went 
on trial, and succeeded. His services were declared most 
satisfactory, and he was formally elected by the congre- 
gation. 

How it happened that he had obtained credentials of 
recommendation from his own old congregation — how they 
had come to imagine it a Baptist Church to which Zealous 
had this call — and how the Independent congregation in the 
town had been so uncircumspect as not to ascertain that it 
was a Baptist people from whom Zealous came, are points 



THE MELDEUM EAMILY. 257 

unknown to us ; but the fact is certain, that by some means 
these particulars were not nicely scrutinized, and that 
Zealous was installed the minister of a large congregation, 
with a salary triple in amount to that on which he had been 
starving. 

But it was not long before the fatal discovery was made. 
There came a rumour, — then came a man, who, to make sure, 
placed himself just in front of Zealous' s pulpit during one 
Sunday morning service, There was a closeting with the 
elders afterwards in the vestry, and never was there such a sud- 
den stir, buzz, and alarm. It was like the swarming of a bee- 
hive. The whole congregation was in a tremor and agitation 
of astonishment and indignation. There were terms flying 
from mouth to mouth of — Oh ! the vile monster — the Judas ! 
the impostor ! Oh ! the abominable hypocrite ! the Ananias 
and Sapphira both in one ! the wretch ! the demon ! the 
brazen spirit of damnation — lying thus before God him- 
self! Oh, wha.t perjury and perfidy, and perdition ! It was 
the awful unpardonable sin against the Holy Grhost ! 
Many wondered that the pulpit had not been struck by a 
thunderbolt as the vile reprobate was in it, and the whole 
chapel and congregation been consumed with him. They 
rushed away out of it at the very idea. 

In the meantime poor Zealous had fled before the tempest : 
he had gone, heaping as many maledictions on his own head 
as all the exasperated congregation had done together. He 
now seemed to see all the foulness of his crime himself. 
He believed himself lost for ever. He loathed and despised 
himself. Where he hid and whither he went, no one knows; 
but he did not venture home. There came the news like a 
blast of death : and it was one. In a very few days Zealous's 
wife was stretched in her coffin ; and his family was left 
utterly destitute. 

Zealous could notbe very distant from his home ; for at this 
news he entered the village at midnight, and flung himself in 
a paroxysm of grief on his wife's grave. A poor woman who 
was nursing a sick child, and whose window overlooked the 
churchyard, was standing at the open casement giving the 
feverish little creature air, when she saw a dark figure come 
up the churchyard path, and looking here and there, at 
length spring rapidly forward to the new-made grave of 



258 ' THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

Mrs. Scattergood, and, dashing himself down upon it, begin 
to tear his hair, and groan and cry terribly. The woman at 
once comprehended who it was. The night was moonlight, 
though wild and cloudy in the late autumn, and the grave 
was not many yards from her window. She described the 
scene as the most terrible imaginable : that the poor man 
tore up the very earth in his agony, and called, as she said, 
on both Grod and Devil to annihilate him. The woman was 
riveted by horror to the spot : she gave a wild cry at 
what she saw and heard, and the unhappy man suddenly 
started to his feet, and fled away without once looking back. 

Poor Scattergood was found wandering in the fields some 
miles distance in a state of utter derangement. He was a 
wild maniac, and was fled from with horror by those who 
first saw him ; but was afterwards captured, and conveyed 
to the parish workhouse. In this place he continued 
for many months, and passed from a condition of furious 
madness to one of childish imbecility. It was only after he 
had in some degree recovered his mind, and an outward 
degree of serenity, that he contrived to escape, and dis- 
appeared for some years. How and where he lived during 
this period is not known. When he was again recognised, 
it was in a sea-port town in a distant part of the kingdom, 
where he was labouring amongst the lowest poor, as he had 
ever since continued to labour. 

His children had been assisted by some relatives, and 
both sons and daughters were now in good though humble 
situations, earning their livelihood. For Zealous himself, he 
had repented in dust and ashes. He had truly passed 
through the fiery furnace of affliction and self-condemnation, 
and he felt now that he was forgiven in heaven, but that he 
never should be on earth. He knew that the one evil hour 
of his life would embitter the whole of his existence — that 
the fame of that deed would follow him to the ends of the 
earth : and he resolved to bear, as a just punishment, all the 
evils that it could bring him, and to go on labouring for those 
who had none else to help them, so long as he should con- 
tinue on earth. His cheeks were become thin and colourless, 
his eyes dim and deep set, and his hair as white as snow. 

And he had not been deceived in the amount of per- 
secution he was doomed to suffer. He fixed himself 



THE MELDRT7M FAMILY. 259 

down in various neglected spots, and was beginning to draw 
the moral chaos into some degree of light and order, to dis- 
entangle the elements of truth and virtue from those of 
crime and gross sensualism, when some accident was sure 
to arrest him in his labour, and drive him forth with igno- 
miny. Some stranger recognised him, and gave his account 
of him; some letter arrived to put the people on their 
guard. The doers and writers of these things thought they 
did God service ; they took neither time nor pains to ascertain 
whether the frail brother had not suffered, and been baptized 
in affliction to genuine repentance and newness of life. 
With them he was a hypocrite and an impostor ; and it was 
a work of virtue to unmask and chase him forth. God saw 
and approved of all his humble contriteness, and his work of 
love ; but man saw only, and would see only, a minister of 
hypocrisy and deceit doing the works of God for a bit of 
bread. It was in vain that he appealed to the works which 
he did, and the life which he led ; they never stood a 
moment against the breath of calumny : those who had seen 
hhn, and known him for years progress, shrunk from him 
and gave him up. 

Once did the old man imagine that he had found a firm 
hold of true hearts, and a harbour for life. An aged and 
worthy person in a stern wild region of Yorkshire had built 
a chapel, and given a salary for a minister. This office 
Zealous had succeeded in obtaining. Here all was to his 
taste, — a simple people, a wild country, whose bold features 
seized on his imagination and soothed his mind ; and the 
old worthy couple growing daily more attached to him, and 
putting the deepest trust in him. Eor twelve months had 
he continued here: the old people congratulated them- 
selves on the acquisition of such a friend, and Zealous not 
only taught well from the pulpit, but taught the children in 
the chapel, which he made a school of in the week. The 
neighbourhood was rapidly improving : but here even pene- 
trated the eye of the slanderous enemy. Some one, on a 
journey of business, hearing in a neighbouring manufacturing 
town of the labours and success of the minister, thought he 
recognised who it was — came over — and found it even so. 

Even here, all that Zealous had done availed nothing. 
Many a time he had thought of opening his past life, and 



260 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

showing his own fatal error to his aged patrons : bnt the 
misery of the subject had prevented him. Now the enemy- 
did it for him, and effectually. There was a cloud on the 
faces of his friends the next time that he saw them ; they 
upbraided him with deceiving them, and demanded the keys 
of the cottage and the chapel. 

Zealous resigned them on the instant ; but it was with a 
pang. He explained with tears, and words instinct with 
repentance, his whole history,— but it was now too late. 
He had again lost a home, a people, and friends, such as he 
did not hope to meet with again. 

Some time afterwards he was found by one of the few of 
those who had known him before, and who gave him credit 
for being all that he was, in a rude hamlet amongst the hills 
of Durham. It was in the midst of a collier population. 
He had again drawn round him a poor but zealous congre- 
gation, and was living like an old prophet in a sort of cham- 
ber on the wall. 

At the end of a close court of houses, you ascended by a 
ladder to his abode, and proceeding round to the other side 
of the dwelling where the entrance was, it was found that 
the ground there was the height of the second story, and 
that the old man's cottage faced into a garden which was 
bounded by high, wild uplands. Here, in one little room, 
the old man lived. There were his " Quarles," his " Milton," 
his " Herrick," and his bed. On a line in the garden hung 
his old thread-bare suit of black, which had been rubbed 
with some liquid which the poor know as a refresher to the 
dye, and it was now sweetening in the hill breezes. 

Here the old man spoke as feelingly as ever of the beauties 
of the surrounding country, which he had traversed in all 
directions, and offered to traverse again with his friend ; of 
their favourite authors, and his labours for the people. Bu 
soon after this he was ejected by the old causes from this 
obscure retreat ; and, wearied of the country, he made a long . 
flight southward, and had been now for some time labouring 
where we have found him in London. 

Eut even here he could not have maintained his ground 
except for one stout little heart, that of JN~ancy Tulloch. The 
old stofy had reached her in this court, 'and he would have 
had to march forth had not this courageous little woman 



THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 261 

bade the people look at what Zealous Scattergood had done, 
and not listen to his enemies of what he had done some- 
where, some forty years before. She asked who amongst 
them there was who, at some moment of their life, had not 
done what they repented of ; and who amongst them could 
point to a constant life of labour and care for others ? "Where 
could they look for a man who would instruct and comfort 
them, and educate their children, like Zealous Scattergood ? 
"Were there not times and seasons of difficulty in which they 
had to look back for their deliverance to his disinterested 
and indefatigable kindness ? 

The tide of feeling was turned into the channels of charity 
and gratitude. Their memories were awoke to acts of 
sympathy and zeal, which cast out and made innocuous the 
venom of slander. The crisis was past, a triumph was 
achieved, and Zealous Scattergood had at length found real 
friends and a resting-place. 



CHAPTEE VIII. 

A FEW WORDS ABOUT NANCY TULLOOH. 

But how came it that Nancy Tulloch was thus proof to the 
almost omnipotent power of slander — that she rose above 
the multitude thus brilliantly in the breadth of her charity — 
that she was courageous enough to defy the world and its 
vindictive spirit of persecution on the plea of virtue and 
propriety ? To understand this we must go a little into her 
history. 

Nancy Tulloch, like Zealous Scattergood, had learnt 
charity through suffering. Bright and happy as she seemed 
to be and was, there was an epoch in her history known 
only to her husband and Mrs. Brentnal, which had made 
her ready to forgive the failings of others, and to feel for 
the injured with a quickness of sympathy which had the true 
spirit of heroism in it. Gray at heart, and full of happiness 
as she seemed now, she had been at one terrible crisis 
driven by misery to the very threshold of self-destruction. 
A friendly hand had plucked her from it ; and that hand was 
honest John Tulloch's. It was the spirit with which this 
had inspired her that had made her active in the behalf of 
Meldrum, though Meldrum never knew the slightest portion 
of the real cause. Nancy Tulloch, like our Saviour, could 
go a long way to seek and save that which was lost; and 
where she did not see an actual malignity of nature, she was 
unwilling to despair of any one, or to abandon her desire 
for his restoration. Zealous Scattergood had laid open his 
whole history to her, and she saw, in his persecutions even, 
the benevolent finger of Grod ; for they had compelled him 
into a steady minister and counsellor of the poor, by closing 
all higher avenues of exertion against him, if higher there 
can be. 

Nancy Tulloch was one of the numerous family of a small 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 263 

farmer in Dorsetshire. As she was growing into woman- 
hood penury was pressing with an iron force on her 
father. He had gradually grown poorer on his few highly 
rented acres: he was in arrears with his landlord, and 
threatened with an execution and ejectment ; but not knowing 
what was to become of him if his wretched farm was taken 
from him, he struggled on, and laboured incessantly and 
enormously himself, to do as far as possible without paid 
labour. Within the house a system of the most rigid 
economy was practised. There were often painful scenes 
between her parents when they were pressed with difficulties 
that they could not cope with. The visits of tax-gatherers, 
poor-rate collectors, and of the steward for arrears of rent, 
with the arrival of letters, which her father took up with an 
air of aversion, and laid down with a curse, made obvious a 
state of poverty and perplexity that drove all happiness out 
of the house, and out of life. Her father talked more and 
more of flinging np the farm and going to the workhouse ; 
and told the children, who stood in confused silence amid 
their father's violence and their mother's tears, that they 
must look out for some service, for he could no longer main- 
tain them at home. 

Nancy Tulloch, or rather Nancy Bains, for that was her 
name, was deeply wounded by these circumstances. She 
was the oldest of nine children, and yet she was little more 
then eighteen. She was naturally of a lively and gay dis- 
position, full of spirit, and rendered her mother immense 
service in the house. She was extremely pretty at the same 
time, and began to attract much admiration from the young 
men of the neighbourhood. Spite of this, however, she 
began to think very much of going out to service, and of 
going rather into a town, where she should see more of life, 
than in the hard service of the country. She might have a 
little pride, too, in not wishing to be a servant where every 
one knew her. Her mother for some time would not hear 
of it, saying, what was she to do without her ? But when 
Nancy saw that things became worse and worse at home, 
she thought she could do more for her family by relieving it 
of her support, and being able to send it part of her wages. 

While these things were running in her mind, she one 
day saw in a London newspaper an advertisement for a 



264 THE MELDETJM FAMILY 

housemaid in a gentleman's family, where there were only 
himself and his housekeeper ; the wages good, and a healthy 
young woman, of good character, from the country, preferred. 
Catching at this as a very likely situation for a commencement, 
she wrote unknown to her parents, and from the particulars 
given in reply was induced to engage herself at once. Her 
parents, though at first taken somewhat by surprise, at 
length consented, on condition that if she did not find the 
place all she expected she should not stay. 

Away, however, went light-hearted Nancy Bains, and soon 
reached the house indicated in Lincoln's-inn-fields. The 
house was no other than that of our old acquaintance, Mr. 
Woodcroft Meadowlands ; and his housekeeper appeared a 
large-built, good-looking woman, of fifty, who impressed on 
Nancy how much she insisted on conduct and character in a 
girl, especially as her master was a bachelor ; and therefore 
she preferred a simple-hearted girl out of the country. 
Nancy was pleased at this disposition in the housekeeper, 
and found the place extremely easy — a charwoman coming 
once or twice a week to clean the floors and stairs, and do 
sundry things that the housemaid might be relieved from 
them. 

Nancy Bains was somewhat surprised that a gentleman 
like Mr. Meadowlands, who, she was told, was a man of large 
estate, and had such a fine establishment in the country, 
should prefer to live in such a very quiet way in town, not 
even keeping a man-servant, and scarcely being seen at home 
except in an evening. But why need we prolong a common 
story ? Nancy found Mr. Meadowlands a very agreeable 
man, who seemed to be very much pleased with her indeed. 
It was not long before he began to pay her particular atten- 
tions, and brought her several handsome presents. To a 
girl of her age, and country experience, this was all agreeable 
enough from a handsome man of Mr. Meadowlands' station: 
but Nancy was not without a considerable degree of shrewd- 
ness, and she grew very uneasy. She resolved to tell the 
housekeeper of the presents, and to say that she did not 
altogether feel right about it. She did so ; but the house- 
keeper only replied, " Pooh, child ! he means you no harm, 
but he is pleased with your manners ; and what is a present 
or two to him?" 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 265 

This did not satisfy Nancy ; and things began rapidly to 
assume so dangerous an aspect, that she resolved to quit the 
place as speedily as possible. Alas, poor, Nancy ! she was 
only one of the simple innocent creatures who are decoyed 
by the same diabolical means into a prison-house from 
whence they never escape but with ruin ; and in those 
cases where there is a high sense of innate virtue, with 
despair and death. We pass over the horrible story ; London 
can furnish such every day of the week. Enough, that 
some weeks afterwards Nancy Bains was turned, at a 
moment's warning, with violence and insult, out of the house 
of Mr. "Woodcroft Meadowlands. A stranger in London, 
knowing no one, and not daring to reveal her condition to her 
parents at home, nor yet to go there, the poor girl saw herself 
with terror standing on the pavement of Lincoln' s-inn-fields 
with the box that contained her whole worldly property. 
A cab accidentally passing, she called to the man to take her 
up. He asked where he should drive : she did not know :. 
she said, at length, to the City. Being set down at the corner 
of a street, she called a porter to carry her box, and as they 
went along she asked him to show her to some decent 
lodgings. The man did this very honestly, and in her little 
room, as soon as she was alone, she flung herself on the bed,, 
and gave way to the excess of her misery. How earnestly 
did the poor girl pray that she might die, — but such prayers 
are not heard ; and during several days that she continued 
here, without stirring out, she thought over and over again 
in distraction what she should do. One moment she resolved 
to go to a magistrate, and accuse Mr. Meadowlands of his 
crimes; but the monster, conscious of his security, had 
before warned her of the uselessness and the danger of any 
such attempt. Against a man of his wealth and station, and 
with people in his house ready to give evidence for him and 
against her, it could only result in a charge of a trick to 
extort money on her part. It could only bring her exposure, 
and punishment as an impostor. Such are the securities of 
the innocent poor against the oppressions and outrage of the 
sensual rich in a country where it is said law and justice are 
open to every one. Well did Sydney Smith add, — and so is 
Mivart's Hotel. 

But Nancy Bains' money, far from sufficiency for the 



206 THE MELDTtUM EAMILT. 

purchase of justice or for entering Mivart's Hotel, would not 
last her long in her present miserable lodgings. Go home 
she could not, and would not ; and dreadful as had been the 
first experiment, she saw nothing for it but seeking another 
service. But with whom was she to advise ? she knew no- 
body, and the people of the house did not seem likely to 
assist her. 

In the midst of these agitations she became haunted with 
a sense of the consequences of her late treatment : she was 
persuaded that she should become a mother, and stung to 
madness by the idea, she rushed out and took her way to 
Lincoln' s-inn-fields, and in her desperation knocked at Mr. 
Meadowlands' door. It was opened by the housekeeper, 
who, on seeing her, demanded in no very smooth terms what 
she wanted. 

" To see Mr. Meadowlands," she replied. 

" To see Mr. Meadowlands!" exclaimed the woman, in 
terms of unmeasured and indignant astonishment : " how 
dare you, you impudent baggage, come here and ask any such 
thing ? Begone ! or I will give you up to the police." 

The door was slammed in her face, and the wretched girl, 
nearly beside herself, ran down the steps and walked away, 
scarcely conscious of what she did. She soon, however 
resolved to watch for Mr. Meadowlands till she saw him. Eor 
several evenings she went to and fro before his house ; but 
in vain. He never came ; and a policeman, who had noticed 
her promenading here, ordered her off. Still every evening 
for a week she returned, and went the length of that side of 
the field to and fro for hours. In one of these walks another 
young woman accosted her, and asked if she was looking for 
any one, and if she could assist her. Nancy, who was driven 
to despair, said frankly, " Tes, she wanted to see Meadow- 
lands, who lived at that house," — pointing to it. 

"Ha, my dear!" replied the young woman, with more 
feeling than Nancy even in her simplicity expected : " Is it 
Mr. Meadowlands ? have you ever been in his service ?" 

Nancy replied she had. 

The young woman then, eyeing her with a peculiar look, 
said, " And so have I, and I can tell you exactly what has 
occurred to you. Come along ; that policeman is watch- 
ing us." 



THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 267 

"Witli that she walked on, and in a few minutes opened 
under fancy's feet a gulf of terror that seemed to make her 
very blood stagnate. 

Nancy, who had hoped, could she see Mr. Meadowlands, 
that she could move him to compassion, and induce him to 
find her some asylum till she could again seek out with a 
fair chance for an honest service, was now struck to the 
heart with what she had heard. She saw the full horror of 
her condition ; and thanking her informant as well as she 
could, turned away, and made for the City, with a despera- 
tion in her soul that could be satisfied with nothing but 
death. She turned down towards London Bridge, went wildly 
up to its centre, and looking round her to see if she could 
mount the parapet and spring off before any one could seize 
her. But the eyes of a score of passengers seemed upon 
her ; she cast one glance over the wall down into the dark 
and dismal depth, and her spirit recoiled. But not the less 
did she pursue her purpose : she descended the steps near 
the foot of the Bridge on the City side, and made her way 
to the Packet wharf. Here, as soon as she saw a gleam of 
the water, she rushed forward at full speed, to plunge into 
the river. "With a prayer to Grod for forgiveness in the very 
act, and a quick and bitter thought of home, she had got 
within a yard of the brink, when she was arrested by a strong 
arm which seized the skirts of her gown ; and a sailor, who 
had been leaning his back against a crane, said, looking her 
earnestly but kindly in the face — " Whither away, matey, 
so fast ? I fear you are meaning mischief. Is it not 
true r" 

Poor Nancy stood as if struck into a pillar of stone. She 
stared at the sailor, but she uttered not a word ; and the 
next moment she dropped on the ground as if she were 
shot dead. 

"When she again became conscious she found herself sitting 
on a bench propped on the arm of the same sailor. They 
were still alone ; and the man said — " There, matey, you are 
coming about — now don't fluster yourself: take it calmly. 
You are not well. Something troubles you. Never mind ; 
we won't talk about it. As soon as you can walk you shall 
go and have some coffee ; and if John Tulloch can be of any 



268 



THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 



use to you, why he will, matey, that's all. Come, don't be 
downcast ; cheer up, cheer up ! things mend when they come 
to the worst." 

The kind tones of the honest sailor, and his kind conduct, 
had such an effect on the poor girl under the circumstances 
that she could do nothing but weep and sob as if her heart 
would break. It was some time before the sailor could get 
her to calm herself, and give him some account of herself, at 
the same time saying that he did not want her to tell him 
anything but what she pleased ; he only wanted to know if he 
could take her any where, and do any thing for her. "When 
he asked her where her friends lived, it only set her off again, 
and her distress was so great that the poor sailor was at his 
wits' end. 

" "Well, sweetheart," he said at length, "just let me know 
what I can do. Try to quieten yourself, and say where we 
shall go to, will you ? There's a good girl." 

With an effort Nancy now told him enough to let him 
know that her friends were far off in the country — that she 
did not know a soul in London — that she had been so shame- 
fully used that she only desired to die ; and never could face 
her friends again. At hearing this the kind sailor said, — 

" Well, it is a dreadful place is this London. Come, we 
will have some coffee, and I will take you to my good old 
mother, and may be, by and by, one may hit on something 
to ease your mind and make you wish to live. Cheer up, 
matey, cheer up, do !" 

And, as he said this, he took her gently by the arm and led 
her to a coffee-house near, where he went into an upper 
room and ordered coffee for two. 

The sailor appeared in the light to be about five-and- 
thirty, of a round, ruddy countenance, with a considerable 
bush of brown hair on his head, and a brown beard, that 
curled up round his chin like a border. His eyes were 
something large and blue, and he had altogether an air of 
the most thorough honesty and kindness. 

"Maybe," said he to Nancy, who sat gazing into the 
fire with a look of despair, " may be, matey, you would like 
a glass of something strong — but I never take anything 
stronger than coffee. I'm a temperance man, and belong to 



THE MELDETJM EAMILY. 269 

a temperance ship, a temperance captain, and a temperance 
merchant. But you need a good stiff glass of grog, I 
think." 

Nancy Bains thanked him warmly, but said she should 
prefer the coffee. It was with great difficulty, however, 
that John Tulloch could prevail upon her to take any ; and 
it was not till he had, by the kindliness and delicate respect 
of his manner, won something on her attention, that they 
set out for his mother's, as he called her. As they went 
along, John said, " I see, matey, plain enough, that you are 
not one of these town-bred 'uns. You are all right and tight 
as any little vessel can be, only that you've fallen in with 

treacherous squalls, and d -d pirates. Never mind — foul 

to-day, fair to-morrow. Trust in God, and there may be a 
good voyage yet." 

At these words, and especially that " trust in Grod," and 
the genuine heart-warm tone in which it was uttered, Nancy 
felt herself revived. A spirit of confidence awoke in her. 
She saw that this was a very honest, kind fellow, and in his 
way religious, and she could not help giving his arm a 
gentle pressure to her side as they were going along. 

" That's right, now, matey ! come, that's right !" said the 
sailor : " Now you can believe me, and so dismiss your fears. 
I don't wonder at your not believing a stranger all at once 
— but, do you know, I believe, and I hope you do the same, 
that a sparrow does not fall to the ground without Grod's 
will ; and I have a notion, and it pleases me, that it was not 
without his guidance that I was just in your way to-night." 

Nancy could only ejaculate — " Thank you, thank you !" 
for her tears were flowing again as fast as ever : and they 
went on in silence till they reached the court where we 
have found them living. Here the door was opened by 
Mrs. Brentnal, who was no little astonished to see John 
Tulloch with a young girl on his arm. John, however, 
entered without ceremony, and said — 

" Show this young woman up to the little berth in the 
upper deck, and let her get to bed ; for, poor thing, sho 
needs rest ; and, mother, be kind to her." 

Mrs. Brentnal looked first at one and then at the other, 
and appeared to hesitate what to do. But John Tulloch 
said — 



270 THE MELDRTJM ITAMILY. 

" Quick, mother, quick ! don't you see the poor child is 
almost fainting ? — quick, and come down to me, and let's 
have some supper." 

John Tulloch wanted no supper, hut he wanted this 
aw r kward scene over, and all explained to Mrs. Brentnal. 
And here we may say, that, though John called Mrs. Brent- 
nal mother, she was no more his mother than he was her 
uncle John, though she called him so, while he was at least 
twenty-five years younger than herself. 

Mrs. Brentnal had been John's nurse when he was a 
child. He had always been very fond of her, and though, 
owing to the misfortunes of his father, who was a wealthy 
farmer at one time, John and his elder brother had come to 
London, he never forgot the old woman ; and when he heard 
that her husband was dead, and had left her destitute, he 
sent for her up to town, and took this house, and made her 
his housekeeper ; though at that time he did not need a 
house or housekeeper, as he had a room at his brother's 
in Botherhithe, and was saving a good deal of money. 

Mrs. Brentnal soon came down, and heard John's story, 
but for some time was not half pleased with the adventure. 
She pronounced it, at all events, rash and romantic, and 
wished no ill might come of it. John quietly said, he wished 
so too : — and there the matter ended for the present. 

In the morning he went early over to the ship, which was 
loading in dock, and was to sail the next week. When he 
returned at night, Mrs. Brentnal received him with an 
unusual degree of attention ; she had tea on the table, and had 
got some sally-luns buttered, and his chair set ; and scarcely 
did he open his mouth to ask how the poor girl was, before 
she was quite officious in replying, that she was a good deal 
cheered up, poor thing — and a very nice little creature 
the was. 

" You think so, mother ?" said John, evidently much 
pleased. " Then I was not such a fool either. "Well, well, 
it delights me, mother, it delights me ; if you think so, all 
is right." 

Over their tea, Mrs. Brentnal soon showed unc)e John 
that she was possessed of all Nancy Bains' story, md that 
she believed every word of it. She really did bel eve that 
the poor girl was as good as she was pretty, but that she 



THE MELDRTTM FAMILY. 271 

was afraid she would never get over it — she would break 
her heart with grief. 

" But she must get over it," said uncle John ; " you 
musn't let her break her heart — and by jingo ! why don't 
you give her some tea, mother ?" 

" She's had it, John," said Mrs. Brentnal. 

" "Well, I might ha' guessed that," replied John Tulloch ; 
" and now we're off next week, and you must take charge 
of the poor thing till I'm back, and then we'll see what we 
can do with her friends. But that villain Meadowlands ! — 
if I had but another week or so, rat him ! if I wouldn't 
shoot him, or chop him down, or something of the sort. 
He should not live — the villain !" 

" John Tulloch," said Mrs. Brentnal, " do you want me 
to see you hanged ? Have you lost your senses ? Leave 
the villain to Grod, who'll punish him, and all such like, in 
his own time. You frighten me, and I am thankful that 
you're going ; I really am this time, though I never was 
before." 

John continued to vow all sorts of vengeance against the 
villain Meadowlands, however, till he went to bed, and the 
same next morning at breakfast. To shorten our story, 
however, the day arrived for John. Tulloch to go on board. 
Before this, Nancy Bains had recovered something of her 
spirits. She had got, through Mrs. Brentnal, plenty of 
needlework, and she sat in her little room stitching away 
as if it were for her life ; and it probably was, for it helped 
her to get rid of the thoughts that preyed upon her life. 

John Tulloch would have her to take her supper with 
them the night before he sailed ; and the sweet looks of poor 
Nancy, as all gratitude, and ever and anon a gush of irre- 
pressible tears, as he spoke cheerfully to her, made him 
again inwardly curse that villain Meadowlands, and think 
what he would do. He had to be on board that night, and 
so he bade Mrs. Brentnal and Nancy good-by, and told 
them to be good company till he came back. And with that 
he gave Nancy a shake of the hand that once more made 
the tears start to her eyes, and a blessing into her heart, as 
she hastened upstairs to hide her feelings. 

When John Tulloch returned from his voyage, which had 
been one of unusual duration, he found Nancy Bains still 



272 THE MELDKTJM FAMILY. 

with Mrs. Brentnal. She had recovered her best looks, 
though mixed with a degree of gravity that told that sad 
thoughts lay deep down in her heart. There was a cradle 
in her little room, and a fine lad sleeping in it ; but between 
Mrs. Brentnal and Nancy there was a league grown as of 
mother and daughter. Mrs. Brentnal declared that Nancy 
was the best little creature that ever was born. She had 
written down into the country to tell her parents that she 
had left her first place, as it did not at all suit her, and that 
she now got plenty of needlework, and was very comfortable. 
Mrs. Brentnal had also written to them to say Nancy was 
the best creature that ever was born ; and the mother had 
written in return that it was very pleasant to hear such 
good accounts. 

Thus, all pain had so far been spared them, and their 
poverty had prevented their coming up, by which any un- 
happy discovery of the real facts had been prevented. Out 
of doors Mrs. Brentnal did not find it so easy a matter to 
satisfy the neighbours as to Nancy's identity. They ima- 
gined that she was John Tulloch's wife, and that he did not 
say so on account of his relations on the other side of the 
water, who, they fancied, were expecting his money amongst 
their children. Any other supposition they could not enter- 
tain, except at Mrs. Brentnal' s expense : but Mrs. Brent- 
nal explained that all was right, and time would show. 

And time did show. John Tulloch went two or three 
voyages, and in the intervals at home he grew more and 
more fond of Nancy Bains, brought her presents, and would 
take her out on excursions to Greenwich, which was his 
favourite resort, where he could talk to the old sailors, 
and stroll in the Park, and get tea at one of the tea-houses, 
and the like. 

Mrs. Brentnal saw all this, but only with evident pleasure ; 
and on the third return of John Tulloch he fairly married 
Nancy Bains, and made an excursion to Gravesend to hold 
the wedding-dinner, — and yet it was not called a wedding- 
dinner, for honest John Tulloch pretended to his relations, 
and every body, that Nancy had long been his wife, aye, long 
before he brought her home. The reason of this was ob- 
vious : he was determined that not a soul but himself and 
Mrs. Brentnal should know an atom of Nancy's past history, 



THE 3IELDET7M FAMILY. 273 

It would not have been easy for any one but John Tulloch 
to satisfy his relations for his keeping silence so long ; but 
as for him, it was quite enough to say that it had been his 
whim. Had any one been at the trouble to search the regis- 
try, they would have found Nancy's little boy registered in 
her own maiden name : but nobody ever thought of doing it, 
and the child bore, and will continue to bear, the name of 
Tulloch to his dying day. 

Nancy, by degrees, became the bright, cheerful, happy and 
excellent creature we have seen her. To love and help were 
the two great impulses of her heart : sorrow had a sacred 
power over her that she never tried to break. To honest 
John Tulloch she seemed bound by ties of gratitude and 
respect that only deepened her love, and made her his 
living genius, — always thinking of him and for him ; and the 
one good deed that he had done in her behalf was repaid by 
a daily devotion that made his little home in this dingy 
court more bright to his eye and his memory, than the 
brightest scenes of southern coasts and countries that he had 
visited in his voyages. Besides the eldest boy, they had now 
another child playing on the floor, and no one could tell 
which John liked best, — he could not tell himself: they were 
both Nancy's. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

AWFUL TEBMINATION OP THE CAEEEE OP MELDET7M. 

The employer to which Mrs. Tulloch had recommended 
Meldrum had his manufactory and warehouse in Fenchurch- 
street. He was one of those quiet, substantial, unassuming 
men, who go through life like a quiet, almost entirely hidden 
stream through the country, diffusing comforts and bene- 
factions in the shape of employment — and not that alone. 
He was never seen in the foamy ridge of politics, yet he 
held, with a wise moderation of manner, the most thoroughly 
liberal and just opinions. He had come up from the country 
a poor lad, and had made his way to immense wealth. 
Though little known himself to the general politicaj world, 
his money was well known to that particular class of poli- 
ticians who may be termed Shilling Philanthropists, — men 
who, without a spark of talent, set up for political philan- 
thropists, and, possessed themselves of great wealth, purchase 
a reputation by the expenditure of their loose change on 
political agitation — men who, if there be a public subscrip- 
tion to be entered into that will be well blazoned about in 
the newspapers, can come down with their £100 ; but who, 
if a political veteran, a political martyr, or a political organ, 
is to be aided and supported in a quiet, unostentatious way, 
are always found wanting ; — plentiful in excuses, but having 
no cash to spare. 

Mr. Martin Maxwell, as we may term him, was not one 
of this class. This class knew the way to his purse, and 
made free draughts upon it. For himself, he carried out 
practically the advancing doctrines of the times. He had 
rebuilt his premises in a healthy and airy style ; he gave 
good wages, and practised early closing ; he was for universal 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 275 

suffrage, and universal education; the equal diffusion of (rod's 
blessing amongst his children ; he had established a good 
library, with newspapers and periodicals, for the use of his 
people ; he had encouraged them to form a mutual improve- 
ment society amongst themselves ; and at Christmas gave 
them a dinner, and presided at it himself; he had promoted 
the study of music and design amongst them; and to any 
and as many of these advantages as he could grasp, even 
the porter was admitted. 

Meldrum, with fear and trembling, went for some time 
through his duties ; but by degrees, linding that he was not 
discovered or suspected by any one, that he passed to and fro 
in the streets with his knot on his shoulders or his arm, and 
went to wagon warehouses, and coach and railway offices, 
with full security, he gave up his alarms, and with fifteen 
shillings a week, and such a home as that of Nancy 
Tulloch's, if he could have forgotten the past, he felt that he 
might still have called himself fortunate. 

But if he could have stilled the avenging demon in his 
own bosom, there was but little chance but that some out- 
ward circumstances might soon put an end to his present 
favourable position. And such an one soon fell out. 

" Come, my old friend ! stand a glass, won't you ? for it's 
very cold," said a tall and showy damsel, as he passed a gin- 
palace near Leadenhall Street. 

Meldrum looked at the unhappy woman, and quickly 
endeavoured to draw his sleeve from her grasp, when, at the 
same moment, father and daughter recognized each other ! 
It was Dinah, painted, bedizened, and half -tipsy, who, sud- 
denly growing pale, rushed away, and left Meldrum withered 
as by a flash of lightning, and staggering under the horrible 
blow of that discovery, till he was obliged to lean against 
the wall for support. A throng of busy vagabonds were in 
a moment about him, asking what was the matter, and ad- 
vising him to go in and get a dram to strengthen his old 
heart. The old man gathered together his confounded 
faculties and his prostrated strength, and went on as well as 
he could, without a reply. 

To describe such misery as now crushed the heart of 
James Meldrum is beyond the art or vigour of a mortal 
pen. The last stroke seemed given to his fate. His livid 



276 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

and Laggard looks startled all that he came near — the two 
women at home, Zealous Scattergood, who still came in once 
or twice a week to converse with him and his employer, and 
tlie people in the factory. Meldrum only complained 
of pain, but refused to give up his work, and did it. But 
from morning till night, and almost from night till morning, 
one thing only was running in his head, and that was, how he 
might seek out and save Dinah. Oh, if he had had that 
crime from off his conscience, how easy would it be, if Dinah 
were inclined to reform, to get her into the warehouse or 
factory of that good Samaritan who had employed him, and 
who rejoiced in nothing more than in rescuing the outcast 
of humanity. But then, every attempt of this kind was a 
clue to his own detection and identity. To save his child 
he might lose himself: he paused between the rescue of his 
own flesh and blood, and the terror of the gallows, 

In this dilemma he turned again to the good Nancy 
Tulloch. There was but one thing — if he could but see his 
daughter, and prevail on her to assume his present name — 
but that he feared was hopeless : the name of Dinah Meldrum 
was too notorious in certain quarters, and to too many of 
the lowest grade of London characters. Could he prevail 
on her to ignore their relationship ? It was the sole hope : 
and catching at this, he sounded Mrs. Tulloch as to her 
willingness to assist in saving this poor girl, and found her 
as usual willing to do what she could. Happy herself, and 
seeming as if she had never known what vice or sorrow was, 
she was still ever eager to aid in saving the fallen. 

Encouraged by this hope, Meldrum set about to trace out 
the haunts of Dinah, to track her thence home, and to strive 
with all his power to bring her back to the paths of virtue. 
The very idea seemed to diffuse a peace and a strength into 
his own mind. He went to his day's labour, with the pur- 
pose, at its close, of commencing his endeavours to this end. 
But to the path of return to the right, how many are the 
obstacles that present themselves ! 

Issuing from the warehouse-door during the day, with a 
large packing-case on his back, Meldrum saw a form flit past 
that sent a thrill of icy terror through him. He felt that 
he could not be mistaken in that figure — that step — that 
threadbare black dress glazed with grease and filth. He 



THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 277 

was not long left in doubt : at the corner of the next street 
it once more passed him — it was he ! — Brassington, and no 
other ! 

If a tiger, a lion, or the arch-fiend himself, had crossed his 
path it would have excited less horror in him. In that man's 
recognition there was death and the gallows. Meldrum felt 
ready to drop under his load ; yet he put forth all his strength, 
and did not pause, or attempt to rest even against the wall 
or a post. He laboured on, hardly knowing what he did, 
to the wagon office whither he was bound. "When he had 
delivered his load, he came out expecting to encounter 
Brassington with police to secure him ; but no, Brassington 
was not to be seen. Somewhat relieved by this, and trust- 
ing that he had escaped the recognition of this man, he re- 
turned to the warehouse, and completed his day ; though 
everything seemed to spin round about him, and he felt, as 
it were, flames burning in every vein and limb. 

As he quitted the warehouse in the evening, the very first 
object on which his eye fell was the man-spider Brassington, 
who, posted on the opposite side of the street, was evidently 
awaiting him. For a month, indeed, had he been traversing 
every street, alley, and quay, in the east of London, in pur- 
suit of his victim. For a long time he had fixed his attention 
only on men in the sailor garb ; but of late he had given up 
this in despair. Re was persuaded that if Meldrum was in 
London he had again changed his dress ; and accordingly he 
scrutinized every man that was about the same size. He 
followed the great thoroughfares, reading the face of every 
working man that he met. He turned down all courts and 
alleys, towards every quay or dock, and haunted the doors 
of shops and warehouses. At length he had found his man ; 
and this time he resolved to be sure. With his usual 
avarice, however, he hesitated to call a policeman to seize 
him in the street, lest by any chance the man might put 
in an artful claim of his own, and outwit him of his fee, or 
at least share it to too great an extent. He determined, 
therefore, to dodge his victim to his lodging, and then laying 
the information before a magistrate, claim the necessary 
aid from him, and thus unquestionably secure the whole 
reward. Satisfied, therefore, with perceiving Meldrum come 
forth, he affected not to pay any particular attention to him, 



278 THE MELDB-FM EAHILY. 

but allowing him to proceed a certain distance, lie then fol- 
lowed carefully, but with as quiet a manner as possible. 

But there requires no great circumstance to alarm the 
vigilance of a guilty conscience : there requires much to 
escape it. 

Meldrum perceived his enemy and his object, and resolved 
to encounter art with art. Instead, therefore, of going 
home, he took his course over London Bridge, on the centre 
of which he paused as if surveying the shipping. He saw 
Brassington cross over the road, and proceed over the bridge 
on the other side. He watched him to the end of the bridge, 
and so markedly that Brassington did not venture to pause, 
but, looking back once or twice to see that his prey was still 
there, went on. This accomplished, Meldrum made a rapid 
retreat, cowering as he went, to avoid the eye of Brassing- 
ton, amid the throng, and suddenly darting down the steps 
which led to the steam wharf, he flew along till he could 
plunge into a cross street, and here, perceiving nothing of 
his pursuer, as suddenly wheeled into a third, going in 
another direction. In a little while he was pacing along 
Crutchedfriars, down St. John- street, Man-street, and 
thence into Prescot-street, by Groodman's-fields. Before 
issuing from this street, he waited some time to see whether 
bis enemy would appear, but he saw nothing of him. Fear- 
ing, however, to approach nearer to his lodgings till more 
assured, he turned once more, and, descending White Lion- 
street, he proceeded along Castle- street : here, however, he 
bad not gone a hundred yards, when he perceived that he 
had done well not to go nearer to his home. The crafty and 
stealthy foe was still on his track. B-oused to a spirit of 
resentment by the sight, he now resolved to give the fellow 
a good run, and turning up Cannon-street-road, he started 
on at his fleetest walking pace, brooding over desperate 
thoughts more deeply at every step. Reaching Whitechapel- 
road, he plunged into that wilderness of life lying between 
Bishopsgate-street, the Hackney-road, and Bethnal Green- 
road, and following first one and then another direction, 
continued his progress for some time. As the night had set 
in, and the object of Meldrum became obvious, Brassington, 
however, assumed a bolder aspect, had come up nearer to his 
prey, and kept an undisguised sharp look upon him, lest he 



THE MELDBTJM FAMILY. 279 

should disappear in some unlighted street or entry. Per- 
ceiving this, Meldrum again struck out right ahead down 
the Bethnal Green-road, crossed Bethnal Green, followed 
the length of Chester-place, went down G-reen-street, and, 
turning at right angles, issued out upon that waste piece of 
ground called Bonner's Field. 

These fields have, since this memorable evening of Mel- 
drum's life, undergone great changes. Then, the old house 
of Bloody Bonner — probably that in which he used to keep 
Protestant martyrs in his coal-hole, and brought them out 
daily to whip them himself —was standing, with three or 
four other tenements adjoining in their gardens. These 
have since been pulled down for improving the entrance to 
the iSTew Victoria Park, and their place is only known by 
some few straggling trees, and traces where the foundations 
have been dug out. 

Meldrum at first wound leisurely along the outskirts of 
this large, and then ill-lighted common. He lingered under 
the shadow of the trees near the new church, then strolled 
past Bonner's Hall, and, traversing the outskirts of the 
adjoining houses and gardens, hesitated whether he should 
cross the fields to Hackney Grove, and so cut into the 
country, and towards Lea Bridge, and thence to the forest. 
Fearing, however, that Brassington, seeing this design, and 
not choosing to trust himself with him in the country, 
should take the opportunity to call some passing policeman 
to his aid, he abruptly proceeded across the field, and reach- 
ing another group of large trees close to a pool of water, he 
determined to make stand here, and come to close quarters 
if possible with his persevering foe. 

He looked round : the spot seemed exactly adapted to his 
purpose, — it was at a good distance from Bonner's Hall. 
The rest of the field beyond was at the back of the great 
Bethnal Green Union. ]N"o one could come soon from that 
quarter — or were, indeed, likely to hear. All was gloomy, 
silent, and remote. Here, then, he suddenly disappeared 
behind the massy bole of an old elm tree, and rearing himself 
close to the trunk, he waited the event. 

It was exactly as he had calculated. Brassington, now 
becoming anxious, and losing sight of his object, dashed 
forward in alarm, and stood face to face with his intended 
prey. 



280 THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 

" So you are here !" said Meldruin. gruffly addressing his 
enemy. 

" And you !" replied Brassington. 

Meldruin grasped the collar of Brassington, and giving 
him a fierce shake, felt the spirit of vengeance rising in his 
soul, and glanced a savage scowl on the thin old man. 

"What is it you would have with me?" he exclaimed. 
" What do you dog me in this manner for ? But as you are 
come thus far, you shall not come for nothing." 

With that he gave the old man another terrible shake, 
and Brassington, terrified at the strength of the man into 
whose hands he had suffered his avarice to beguile him, now 
said hurriedly, — 

" You won't hurt me ! You won't kill me ! Let me go, 
and I'll not say anything." 

" Yes," said Meldrum, "I'll trust you : I should think I 
may, after what I've seen to-night — after what I saw the 
other day." And with that he seized the old man by the 
throat. 

" Let me go, I say ! Let me go ! — and I'll give you 

But here his voice was silenced by the grasp of Meldrum, 
whose passions were boiling, and heaven, earth, remorse, re- 
pentance, and the gallows, alike forgotten. The present, 
which decides the commission of crime, spite of judge, jury, 
or hangman, — the present, with all its violence of ven- 
geance, was the only power that swayed the malefactor's 
soul. 

A desperate struggle ensued. The old man, who had 
cried out with the cowardly feeling of the mean lurker for 
human blood, now perceiving that there was no hope from 
any appeal to his enemy, with the cunning of his character 
plucked his case-knife from his pocket, and, as he was 
stifling in the iron grasp of his foe, began franticly to stab 
at him with all his might. 

Meldrum, who received one or two wounds, now grew 
mad with rage, and, striking Brassington with his fist, felled 
him to the earth, and falling on him, flung it to a distance, 
and again grasping the throat of the prostrate man, did not 
release his hold till he had ceased to struggle. He then 
sprang up, cast a hasty glance around, and, catching the 
gleam of the water in the hollow just by, he dragged his vie- 



THE MELDEUM FAMILY. 281 

tim down, and plunging him in, hurried away and oyer the 
field at his highest speed. 

" Another !" said the murderer, as he rushed wildly along. 
" Another murder, and that designedly. The devil is sure 
of me now — there is nothing hut damnation for me. Oh, 
Zealous Scattergood ! — Oh, Mrs. Tulloch, if you could know 
this ! But the devil is stronger than you, and me, and all 
of us. He has me, body and soul." Thus did this frantic 
malefactor rave to himself, as he sped on. He knew not 
rightly whither he was going. It was vain to think of re- 
turning to his lodgings or his employment. He made for a 
lodging-house that he knew of; and, concealing himself 
during the day, again issued forth at night, and sought the 
place of last night's tragedy. He wished to see whether 
the body still was there : he could see nothing. He entered 
the town again; and hiding first in one place, then in 
another, till he could hear something, he at length learned 
that Brassington was not dead, but that he had recovered, 
and was alive. The water was not deep : it had served to 
refresh him and recall life : he had not entirely ceased to 
breathe, — he recovered ; and now a fresh hue and cry was 
abroad after Meldrum. He was now identified as the 
murderer of the old lady, and the attempter of this second 
murder. 

Terrified at the certain prospect of the gallows, he now 
made a desperate push for life. There was an emigrant ship 
lying at the London Docks. He got aboard just before sail- 
ing, paid his passage, and was now descending the Thames. 
Wearied with this terrible transition of exasperated passions, 
and the agonies of a crime-haunted soul, and anxious not 
to be seen, he plunged into his berth, and lay for a day 
and a night. 

He hoped when out at sea to be out of danger ; but Provi- 
dence had decreed otherwise. Blood cried from the ground 
against him, and the ocean refused to harbour him. Con- 
trary winds prevented the vessel from getting off the coast ; 
it continued tossing to and fro in the Downs, and the cap- 
tain, unwilling to put into any port on account of the heavy 
dues, cast anchor ; but they soon slipped cable and were off 
again. The following night it blew fiercely, and was in- 
tensely dark. By some mistake of the signals at midnight 



282 THE MELDKT7M EAMILT. 

they ran foul of another vessel, and there was every pros- 
pect of both going down together. The masts entangled 
together caused the vessels to work below, as if they would 
sink each other down into the sea. The masts were cut 
away, and the next day the two vessels were towed away by 
passing steamers. 

Scarcely did the people appear on the deck of the vessel 
in which Meldrum was, when, amongst the crowd of emi- 
grants, who should the flying malefactor see but, large and 
rosy, and well-fed as ever, his old acquaintance Big Bow- 
wow ! He stood amid a numerous group of wife and children, 
who were all seeking the shores of America. 

No sooner did Birkhampshire see Meldrum than, turning 
to the captain, he said, " There is the Jonah!" 

There was an immediate commotion amongst the crew 
and passengers. Birkhampshire' s story was eagerly listened 
to, and the captain ordered the men instantly to seize Mel- 
drum, and secure him till they got back to London, whither 
the steamer was hauling them. 

His doom was fixed. He saw that the hand of God was 
against him, and at once the gallows, the shouting, mocking 
crowds, and strangling cord, were before him. In the next 
instant he was in the sea ! It was the impulse of the 
moment's terror of a public death and public shame — a 
single leap, and it was done. There was a cry — a rush to 
the boats — one had been crushed between the two ships, the 
other was let down in all haste ; but the felon was gone, and 
not a trace of him could be discovered. 

Thus terminated the strange career of James Meldrum. 
Who could have imagined such a beginning and such an end- 
ing ? Who shall say what are the crimes that they give origin 
to when they drive peaceable men desperate, and close the 
avenues of life against them ? What a wide distance between 
James Meldrum the Methodist class-leader, and Meldrum 
the murderer ! There was no need that one should have 
become the other. Under a better system, the better nature 
of the man had been maintained. He was ground, crushed, 
outraged, and he became — what he was. The same process 
may be readily carried out in others. It becomes a wise 
government and a Christian nation, that a better system 
shall produce us better fruits. 



CHAPTEE X. 



CONCLUSION. 



It may be imagined that the astonishment of the Tullochs 
and Zealous Scattergood was not small when they came to 
know the awful termination of the career of Meldrum. 
But how did they come to know ? They read, indeed, in 
the newspapers of the death of Meldrum, the Berkshire 
murderer, by his jumping overboard at the moment of detec- 
tion in the emigrant ship, but it passed from their minds, as 
such passages do, in the multitude of horrors with which 
modern life abounds ; and there was no connexion in their 
thoughts between Meldrum the murderer and Jabez Baxter, 
who had suddenly disappeared from his employment and his 
lodgings. 

This disappearance had been a matter of much specula- 
tion, wonder, and concern, at Nancy Tulloch's. Mrs. 
Brentnal professed not to wonder at all, but reminded Nancy 
that she had never liked the man, and had warned her that 
sooner or later she would repent of her too great easiness 
with strange people. Nancy Tulloch was twitted in a gentle 
way too by Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell for her introduction of 
this man to their notice. That he had gone off voluntarily 
they did not doubt, but they could not perceive from 
what cause, or that he had taken a farthing's worth ol 
what did not belong to him : on the contrary, he had left 
the greater part of a week's wages behind, which Mr. 
Maxwell handed to Mrs. Tulloch towards the arrears of 
lodging. 

Nancy Tulloch and good old Mr. Scattergood were deeply 
concerned at the event. They bore patiently any little 
cause of triumph against them, and were only grieved for 
the man himself. They did not believe but that some 



284 THE MELDETJM FAMILY. 

sudden circumstance had caused him to go off; if, indeed, 
no accident had occurred to him. All this, however, might 
have remained a mystery, perhaps for ever, if Mr. Maxwell, 
without saying anything to any one, but to satisfy his own 
mind, and perhaps that of Mrs. Tulloch. — for he had noticed 
her distress, and had ceased to rally her on her Quixotism — 
had not put an advertisement in the Times, offering £5 
reward for the discovery of what had become of his porter, 
who had so unaccountably disappeared. This advertisement 
at once brought up old Brassington to the warehouse to 
claim the reward. He could at once identify Meldrum, the 
Berkshire murderer, and the porter of Mr. Maxwell, who 
now bore the name of Jabez Baxter. Great was the 
astonishment of Mr. Maxwell ; not less that of Mrs. Tulloch 
and Zealous Scattergood. They felt almost horrified at 
having been in so close and continued an intercourse with a 
murderer. Mrs. Brentnal had got a proverb for life — 
" Nancy ! Nancy ! did'nt I say be careful ? Mercy on us ! 
if he had killed the children, you, me, and all of us, before 
he went off!" 

The remaining history of the Meldrum family may be told 
in a few words. Zealous Scattergood was, during the follow- 
ing summer, sent for to pray by a dying woman in a London 
hospital. It was Dinah Meldrum. The course of her 
wretched life was about to close in that misery and amid 
those appalling horrors which vice and gin so plentifully 
produce. The poor girl, like her father, had once wandered 
into Zealous' s chapel, and the memory of what she then 
heard made her implore his presence by her dying bed. 
From her Mr. Scattergood learned that her brothers were 
both transported — Job for embezzling his master's money, 
and Sampson for a robbery at Newmarket. Such is the 
history of the Meldrum family ! , 

"We had dropped the pen, when some one cried, — " But 
we have not said good-bye to the Tullochs, and to good old 
Zealous Scattergood." Say it, then. 

John Tulloch has returned from his voyage, and has 
announced that it is his last. He has arranged to go into 
partnership with his brother in Eotherhithe. John has saved 
a good round sum of money. He has already taken a house 



THE MELDRUM FAMILY. 285 

on that 3ide of the water, in which not only Mrs. Brentnal, 
but Zealous Scattergood, is to have a room. He has already 
taken the whole family, children and all, to see this house ; 
not by bhe Thames Tunnel, be sure, good reader, for John 
hates all such underground, new-fangled " mowdiwarp 
burrows," (mole burrows) ; and, so long as he lives, will sail 
over the sunshiny surface of the flood in a natural and 
rational boat. 

John Tulloch expected everybody to be charmed with his 
hou*3 ; but at first they were all a good deal disappointed, 
for it faced into a low, and crowded, and dirty street. But 
when they entered it, they found themselves proceeding 
along a long passage, and presently came to a large room 
with a large window, with a painted blind drawn down. 
This blind, John, with a significant smile, drew up, and ex- 
claimed, — " There, then ! What do you think of that, 
mates ?" The effect was testified by a general exclamation 
of delight — for it gave a view out upon the broad river, all 
alive with innumerable craft of various kinds — large ships 
lying in forests near at hand, steamers careering along with 
crowds of people in the middle of the watery way, and be- 
yond, the vast mass of London, with its warehouses, churches, 
and public buildings, up and down the river. 

The sun was shining brightly on all ; and John Tulloch, 
assured by the pleasure evidenced on every face, said, " Well 
now, this is our common sitting-room; and now I'll show 
you where we are each and all of us to stow ourselves away." 
And with that he went and pointed out a snug room where 
Zealous and his books might be, and another for Mrs. 
Brentnal. 

In the elation of his heart, Uncle John expatiated on the 
plans he had laid down. Zealous was to go and preach still 
to his old congregation, and they would go with him. He 
was to teach the children here in the house ; and every now 
and then they would make a holiday, by going down to 
Greenwich, and having a day of it. Would not the children 
roll down the hills in the park ! Would not they have some 
fine cracks with the old sailors ! And would not they have 
some famous tea-drinkings ! 

And there they are ; and should any of my readers, on one 



28G THE MELDRTJM FAHILY. 

of their holiday excursions to that popular spot, behold a 
jolly, happy-looking sailor, with his pretty little merry wife, 
each with a child by the hand, and a thin and grave old 
Dissenting minister, having on his arm a stout old country 
dame that does not like going up hill, they need not send 
for me to ask who they may be — they will know at once — 
certainly ! — and will wish, as they pass them with a smile, — 
Long life to Uncle John and all his family ! 



SIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 



CHAPTEE I. 



THE SPIEIT OP HATEED. 



Iw the woods of Wintanrik there is a summer-house, which 
catches the eye of the traveller at a great distance on the 
plains below it : its white walls showing themselves amid 
the dark masses of those lofty woods, and its gilded vane 
flashing occasionally as it turns in the sunny air, lead the 
stranger to look for the mansion, which he naturally supposes 
must stand somewhere near it. There is no mansion. The 
estate of Wintanrik some years ago belonged to Sir Peter 
Bethell, who resided on his patrimonial property of Much- 
Hatten, some three miles off. This estate came into the 
Bethell family only with Sir Peter's mother, a Miss Little- 
hales, to whom it had descended from a long line of ancestry. 
It was singular that a property like "Wintanrik, which, with 
its woods and farms, produced a rental of two thousand a 
year, should seem never to have possessed a family man- 
sion that was worthy of being called one. But the truth 
was, that the estate, till the great war time, which gave so 
wonderful a stimulus to landed property, never had been 
looked on as a very valuable or desirable one. It consisted 
in a great measure of marshy moorlands, which, till the 
system of drainage was introduced, in consequence of the 
amazingly increased value of all agricultural produce, had 
lain in large rushy grazing farms, over which a few cattle, 
and numerous flocks of pewits, had ranged, to the small 
profit of the farmer, and still less of the landlord. The 



288 EIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON". 

• 

Littlehales had always had sufficient acquaintance with the 
marish nature of their lands, having there zealously pursued 
the snipes which abounded in them, and the trout and wild- 
ducks, which were amazingly plentiful in and about the river 
Clarshet, or Clearsheet, which flowed on in a broad stream 
over the purest gravel, gleaming brightly between wilder- 
nesses of rush and sedge, so as evidently to have suggested 
its own name. Their punt might be seen bearing them up 
or down this stream, or moored in some willowy creek, as 
they roamed and splashed over the vast flats after their game ; 
but no idea of drainage, or of improved rental, seems to have 
crossed their brain till the period just spoken of, when the 
signs of improvement all around roused the father of the 
last Miss Littlehales to think of drains and embankments, 
which at once raised his heritage to the value mentioned. 
Possibly, had there been a male heir to Wintanrik, there 
would soon have sprung up a residence on the estate of cor- 
responding dignity ; but the heiress marrying the possessor 
of Much-Hatten, the house, such as it was, which her fore- 
fathers had inhabited, was, on the contrary, for a time 
deserted. This house stood in the village of Wintanrik, at 
the back of the woods, and on the edge of that great plain 
which formerly was a widely known marsh, but was now an 
expanse of well-cultivated farms. It was a bald, square, old 
brick house, with no marks of beauty whatever about it. At 
the time we speak of it was become a farm-house. A coach- 
road ran through the plain flat village ; and those who tra- 
velled this road saw the old house of the Littlehales at some 
hundred yards from the road, having many of its upper 
windows bricked up on account of the window-tax, a great 
straw-yard adjoining it, and numbers of clean wooden pails 
and bright tin and brass pans reared near the house, speak- 
ing of dairy business on no inconsiderable scale. 

Sir Peter Bethell, though he lived at the old family man- 
sion of Much-Hatten, or Hatten Manor as it was more fre- 
quently called, frequently rode over to Wintanrik to look at 
his woods : but in the village he was very rarely to be seen. 
There was little to attract him thither, for his rents were 
duly paid ; and there was something which was particularly 
calculated to keep him away: this was the widow of his 
second brother, Chute Bethell, who lived there with her two 



SIR PETEB AIO) HIS PIGEON. 28'J 

boys. There had been bitter dissensions in tlie Bethell 
family, and they had arisen out of this very estate of Win- 
tanrik. The father of Miss Littlehales, on the occasion of 
his daughter's marriage, had taken care to have the estate 
settled on her and her heirs, but in such a loose way as was 
certain to originate disputes and ill-blood : these arose 
amongst her own children. Peter, the eldest son, succeeded 
by primogeniture to all the property not otherwise devised, 
and to the baronetcy as a matter of course, it being attached 
to the estate of Much-Hatten. But, on the birth of a second 
son, Lady Bethell had besought of her husband, Sir Paul, 
that Wintanrik should be bequeathed to this second son, 
Chute. So the matter was decided, and Chute grew up with 
the fixed expectation of Wintanrik as his heritage. Lady 
Bethell had died when Chute was quite a boy, and soon 
after the birth of a third son who was named Elliott ; she 
died in the firm persuasion that Chute would one day suc- 
ceed to her ancestral estate of Wintanrik. But Chute, like 
many a young man before him, had the misfortune to fall 
under his father's heaviest displeasure, — andthat bymarriage. 
He had led the life of a young country gentleman, looking 
forward to the possession of "Wintanrik one day, and in the 
meantime indulging his love of farming, by singularly 
enough taking on lease from his father one of the farms 
of that estate, and there shooting, coursing, and fishing to 
his heart's content. But at the principal inn of the country 
town, which Chute regularly frequented, and of which the 
landlord was a keen sportsman and a knowing farmer, Chute 
fell in love with the daughter, and, to Sir Paul's astonish- 
ment and exasperation, married her. She was a fine, high- 
spirited woman, not wanting in sense or education, and 
would have pleased the old man well enough had she been a 
person of family. As it was, he forthwith struck Chute out 
of his will ; and neither reason nor entreaty could ever after- 
wards prevail on him to see him, or restore him to favour. 

Chute thought, indeed, that, on the part of his elder bro- 
ther Peter, there was no entreaty used on his behalf; on the 
contrary, he was persuaded that Peter was very well pleased 
with the chance which threw Wintanrik into his hands. 
Chute called upon Peter to act like a brother, and see that 
ins mother's wishes regarding him were carried out : he 

u 



290 sie peteb A*a> ins pioeon. 

enjoined him to do this as he hoped for God's blessing; and 
Peter declared that he would do it, if possible : but it never 
was doue. Peter at that time was a gay young man, living 
much in London, and at the houses of various great families 
in different parts of the kingdom, the sons of which were hia 
intimate friends, and where, as the heir of a wealthy baro- 
netcy, he was always a welcome guest. Chute meanwhile 
continued on his farm, growing every year more embittered 
against his brother Peter, whom he had come to regard as 
secretly resolved to hold fast his rightful patrimony, and as 
really keeping Sir Paul so steadfast in his alienation from 
him. High words took place between them when they met ; 
Chute went so far as to declare to Peter, that if he did not 
prevail on his father to do justice to him, or did not himself 
yield up Wintanrik to him on succeeding to it, he would 
kill him, if he were hanged for it the next hour. Chute's 
wife, whose pride was deeply wounded, strengthened him in 
his resentment, and his violent conduct to his brother. 
So far did this go, that when at length an opportunity oc- 
curred in which a prudent man would have most probably 
succeeded in securing his object, Chute, by his blind resent- 
ment, only drove it more completely out of his power. 

Peter had, in his turn, incurred his father's resentment. 
He had in his gay life, and amid companions who were some 
of them deeply engaged in sporting matters, contracted 
heavy debts, and given security by post-obits, which, coming 
, to the knowledge of the careful old Sir Paul, had greatly 
exasperated him : he had refused Peter any help or counte- 
nance in a great emergency of this kind, which obliged Peter 
to flee abroad. With the pecuniary difficulty was involved 
a love affair, which added wonderfully to its embarrassment. 
Peter's rival in the affections of the* lady on whom he had 
set all his hopes was at the bottom of the severity with 
which the debt was pressed, and which drove him to the 
continent. Peter's absence threatened to prove fatal to his 
success with the object of his attachment ; and in this diffi- 
culty he humbled himself so far as to apply to Chute, en- 
treating him to raise the necessary sum for him on his lease, 
and promising to use every endeavour with their father for 
the cession of his claims. But such was the blind resent- 
ment of Chute, and his joy in the enmity between Peter and 



SIB PETER AND HIS PIGEON". 291 

their father, that he sent Peter word, that, so far from help- 
ing him with a penny, he would gladly give a thousand 
pounds to see him transported for life. Chute had no doubt 
that now his father must soon relent towards himself, and 
that he should reap the- advantage of Peter's absence and 
disfavour. 

But at this very crisis old Sir Paul was found dead in his 
after-dinner chair. Peter, now Sir Peter, hastened over to 
his estate, discharged the debt against him, and remembered 
with a peculiar clearness the good wishes and conduct of his 
brother. There was no time for Chute to show whether he 
was disposed to fulfil his deadly vow towards Sir Peter, for, 
by a singular fatality, he himself died suddenly — it was said 
of an inward chagrin — three weeks after his father. The 
widow of Chute, showing the same high spirit, and breathing 
the same inveterate animosity against Sir Peter, remained 
on the spot. The lease secured her yet a long term, and 
she seemed resolved to maintain herself on the spot, and to 
beard Sir Peter on his own land with the most dogged obsti- 
nacy. Sir Peter, through his solicitor, made her the most 
liberal offers, if she would retire to some distant place. She 
flung back the proposal with scorn. No ! there would she 
stand to the last possible moment, as a crying evidence of 
his wrong and robbery to his brother's orphans. She every- 
where designated him Sir Peter the Bobber : she waited, 
she said, to see the judgment of Grod upon him : she took a 
pew in the church of Much-Hatten, and there she went 
duly, Sunday by Sunday, with her . boys, that Sir Peter and 
all his household, and the villagers, might see the widowed 
sister and the orphans that he had wronged. 

Sir Peter Bethell was himself far from a happy man ; he 
had succeeded to a noble estate, but he had lost the woman 
on whom he had fixed intensely his affections. During his 
absence his rival had succeeded in obtaining her ; and this, 
and some other things which had fallen out between himself 
and those in whom he had placed his most cordial youthful 
confidence, seemed to have cast a blight and a mildew upon 
his nature. He was no longer the same thing. Instead of 
a gay enjoyer of life, he was a moody and secluded man. 
Prom the moment that he returned * to Hatten Manor he 



292 SIE PETEE AND HIS PIGEON. 

sought no society, and returned no advances towards it. 
From the moment that the widow Bethell, as she was called, 
made her appearance at Hatten Church, he disappeared from 
the family pew. Mrs. Chute Bethell pronounced him a god- 
less unbeliever ; and though he was not present to see it, 
every Sunday she duly presented her stately person at the 
church, and led her two boys by the hand with an air which 
said plainly — " See the poor innocents, that this bad man 
has defrauded !" 

Tears went on. Sir Peter continued a solitary man: 
looking after his estate ; keeping everything in the nicest 
order ; spoken well of by his tenants and the poor of the 
village, bat by all else regarded as a misanthrope who had a 
load on his conscience, and who sneered at human nature 
and at virtue. Meantime the widow Bethell had maintained 
her firm stand at Wintanrik, though she had relaxed her 
visits to Hatton Church, where Sir Peter never appeared, 
and had sent her two boys, Walter and Francis, to a public 
school at a distance. These two boys now reached the ages 
of fifteen and seventeen. They had been brought up by 
their mother in all the belief of wrong, and the spirit of 
hatred towards their uncle, which animated her own bosom. 
They had been taught to look upon the estate at "Wintanrik 
as truly and rightfully their own ; and they were, moreover, 
taught to regard that of Much-Hatten as likely, by the 
course of events, to become Walter's. She had made Walter 
vow most solemnly on the Bible, and by all his hopes of 
heaven, if ever that were the case, not to act as their uncle 
had acted towards their father, but to give over Wintanrik 
to Francis. She had declared to Walter many a time, and 
in a tone that made the two young hearts tremble, that if 
he failed in this — if he, too, proved a perjured robber to his 
brother — she would curse him while she lived, and haunt 
him after death. 

It was no wonder that, brought up under such circum- 
stances, and in the spirit of such sentiments, the two boys 
came to regard both Wintanrik and Much-Hatten with very 
peculiar feelings, and to look forward to a future day in 
which they should be master of all these rich lands now 
withheld from them. In their eyes their uncle was a mon- 



SIR PETEE AND HIS PIGEON. 293 

• 

ster of injustice, and in their conversation with each other 
they echoed all their mother's feelings and ideas. They 
often ranged all through the woods of Wintanrik, and fished 
in its river, and resolved if they saw Sir Peter to tell him 
plainly what they thought of him. 

It was now Midsummer. They were come home for the 
holidays ; and Walter was to return to school no more, but 
to take the management of the farm. One fine afternoon 
they had entered the woods, and strolled on to the summer- 
house of which we have spoken. They thought they would 
ascend to its balcony, and take a view over the country, in- 
cluding the dark woods in the distant valley which threaded 
the mansion of their strange and gloomy uncle, Sir Peter. 
The doors were seldom fastened, and they were often ac- 
customed to range through the place. But now having 
entered, they found the door of the second story locked. 
"Without passing through that they could not reach the top. 

" That old curmudgeon, now, must have been here and 
done that," said Walter. 

" Hang the unsociable dog-in-the-manger !" said Prancis. 
" No doubt he thinks that he deprives people of some 
pleasure in going out on the balcony. It would serve the 
gloomy old ascetic right to knock the door in now." 

" Let us do it," said Walter : and at once they kicked the 
door, and pushed against it with their shoulders. But it 
was too strong. There was a strange echo in the old empty 
place, and Prancis said, " What is that ?" — for amid the 
noise which they had made, there seemed to be a sound as 
of a ghostly voice. They listened, but all was silent. As 
if something, however, had struck them with a slight fear, 
the two youths, as by a simultaneous ir pulse, left the door, 
and descended to the room below. Here they were soon 
whistling and laughing, and presently talking in a high strain. 

" What a wretched old curmudgeon that uncle of ours is," 
said Walter. " What is the use of such people in the world p" 

" To plague honest people," replied Prancis, " wjio would 
only be too happy if it were not for such porcupines." 

"Yes! bless me, Prank," said Waiter: "if we bad but 
all this property now, as we ought to have, — for it is ours, not 
that old swindler's — would- not we do rather different, eh ?" 



294l SIR PETER A1H) HIS PIGEON. 

• 

" Yes ! I should think so," said Francis. " What would 
you do, Wat, if you had it ? You would put a bit of lite 
into the country round, I think, would not you ?" 

" My gracious ! but I think I should. I'll tell you, Prank, 
what 1 would do. I would be a soldier. I would never 
rest till I was a general ; and then I would do such feats 
that I would soon have an army at my command, and 
would get a name like Marlborough. That's what I would 
do. I could put down all the foes of old England. Bethell 
of Wintanrik ! that should be a name, Frank, I can tell 
you." 

" Oh !" said Francis, " that is extravagant. That is not 
so soon done, Wat ; but I can tell you what I would do. 
I would settle down here. I would have nobody's blood on 
my head. No ! you might have your bloody laurels, I would 
have palms of peace." 

" Bloody laurels ! palms of peace !" said Walter, laugh- 
ing. " Why, Frank, you are going to turn poet — you are 
quite romantic ! But what would you do to win your 
palms ? — not merely collect your rents, I suppose ?" 

" Oh, no !" said Francis. " Collect my rents I would, 
but they should be easy rents. No farmer should curse 
me as he ploughed with a heavy heart. I would make all 
the poor and the aged happy. There should be no work- 
house in Wintanrik or Much-Hatten. Every old creature 
should sit by his or her fire in comfort ; and as for the 
children, I would build a school for them, and make them 
all virt uous and enlightened. In short, Wat, all round here 
should be a paradise, — it should in reality. What a strange 
stupid thing it is that people wont do all that kind of thing, 
instead of plaguing one another as they do." 

" Well, it is very odd they don't," said Walter, laughing. 
" But do you think, Frank, you really should do all that ? 
Why, you would be another Man of Ross." 

" Would'nt I ?" asked Francis ; " I wish I might be 
tried, and then you should see. I should not envy you all your 
martial fame, Wat, if you were ever so great a conqueror — 
not I, indeed." 

While Francis was saying these last words, the two boys 
were descending the steps from the summer-house into the 



SIE PETEB AND HIS PIGEON 205 

wood. They were still in eager talk, but the listener could 
catch no more of its meaning. The listener ! yes, Sir Peter 
Bethell himself was a listener to all this ; and he it was 
■who had bolted the door of the upper room. He had seen 
his two nephews approaching as he was accidentally there, 
and as he could not close the door without being seen, he 
had hastened up the stairs and bolted the upper room door 
behind him. As the two youths went away through the 
wood Sir Peter looked cautiously from the window, and with 
a dark and sarcastic smile said : — " So — so — my young 
heroes ! that is what you would do, is it ? That is the way 
you talk of your uncle, eh ? That is the way your amiable 
mother teaches you to talk of me ? And you would do so 
differently. You ! You would not be like the old cur- 
mudgeon, the old unsociable dog-in-the-manger, the old 
porcupine, Sir Peter. No ! you would be saints and heroes ! 
Oh ! that eternal cant of this deceitful race, — this humbug 
of mortal hypocrisy, — this tinsel humanity with which all 
the world dresses its amiable laws, and daubs over its devilry! 
Sweet young enthusiasts ! "What now if I were to try you ! 
if I were to quit this Wintanrik, which is not mine, oh no ! 
which is yours of course — if I were to let you become a hero 
— and a saint ? Ha ! ha ! It were almost worth while to 
try it. One knows the upshot well enough ; but yet — why 
it wo aid be a game, an experiment, a grand pursuit for a 
life." 

Sir Peter descended, and issued from the summer-house. 
There was a wild strange light in his otherwise gloomy 
eyes : there was a strange bitter smile on his thin features, 
as he went silently through the wood, and he ever and anon 
said, as to himself, — " What and if I should ! If the old 
curmudgeon should do them a generous deed ? if the old 
porcupine should shed them a golden quill ? It would" — 
but the sentence was never finished, at least in audible 
words. 

"Within a week Sir Peter surprised the widow Bethell 
with a visit. The stony-hearted woman was startled, but 
she ordered him to be admitted. As he entered her room 
she stood up tall and proud. She was in the strength and 
even flower of her years. She was no longer the young 



206 SIB PETEB AND HIS PIGEON. 

woman but the matron, large, full of vigour, and majestic, 
with a countenance which would have been comely had its 
expression not been so stern and defiant. Sir Peter, a tall 
slender man whose hair was already thin and grey, and in 
whose meagre person and face there was a quiet even ap- 
proaching to timidity, bowed to Mrs. Bethell, and seated 
himself in a chair which the haughty woman pointed to with 
her hand. 

u Tou will be surprised, madam, at a visit from me," said 
Sir Peter. 

" I do not deny it," replied the widow, still standing. 
" Pray, what may be its import ?" 

" Tou accuse me, madam," replied the Baronet, "of in- 
justice to your family." 

" I have done that these dozen years," replied Mrs. 
Bethell. " All the world knows it — I have made no secret 
of it — yet that never brought you here before." 

"And was it to be expected?" asked Sir Peter, in the 
most unmoved and unimpassioned manner. " Your late 
husband, I think, made no secret of his feelings and inten- 
tions towards me, either." 

" Quite true," said the widow. 

" I think when he could have helped me, and won my 
eternal gratitude." 

" Gratitude ! — pshah ! — do not let us hear any of that 
wretched cant !" said Mrs. Bethell, her eyes flashing with 
-anger. " Is there any real matter of business, Sir Peter 
Bethell, that you have to address to me?" 

" There is," continued the Baronet, composedly. " Chute 
wished he could transport me; he menaced even worse. 
These are not things to draw brothers together. You, 
madam, or the world does you injustice, participated in those 
feelings : you have eu grafted them in your children. Those, 
I think, are not facts to draw me hither ?" 

" Nor that you kept back the property of my husband 
and his children," added the widow, indignantly. 

" It never was his or theirs," said the Baronet. " Win- 
tanrik was left me by my father. Here is the will, — you 
can see it." 

"The will !— the trick of Satan! Tell me not of wills, 



SIB PETEB A1TD HIS PIGEON". 297 

Sir Peter," exclaimed the widow, vehemently. " Tell me 
of right, of justice, of your mother's living will, — yes ! her 
will, Sir Peter, her will and dying prayer. Tell me of 
these, and of God's truth. But why, I ask again, come you 
here to insult me ?" 

"You say I have wronged you," continued Sir Peter, 
outwardly unmoved as a stone. " Very well — there shall 
be no more of that. Tour sons shall possess Wintanrik, 
at least when they are of age. I tell you, madam, that it is 
mine — mine by all laws human and divine — mine by my 
father's will, and by the enmity and murderous vows of 
your husband : but I resign it. If there be any injustice 
done to you or yours, it shall not be by me." 

Sir Peter rose, threw a large sealed packet on the table, 
bowed, and withdrew. The astonished widow tore it open, 
and found it to contain a carefully and legally drawn deed 
of gift of the estate of Wintanrik to her sons Walter and 
Prancis. It was to take effect on the day of Walter's ma- 
jority, and from that time till the majority of Prancis he 
was to act as his steward, and pay over that day his moiety 
of the proceeds duly and promptly to him. Till the majority 
of Walter, about three years, the brothers were to receive 
the annual sum of one thousand pounds, for the purposes 
of their befitting maintenance and education. 

The astonishment of Mrs. Chute Bethell maybe imagined 
on this disclosure. She had not patience to wait for the 
return of her sons, who were out fishing in the Clarshet, 
nor to send for them. She hastily threw on her bonnet and 
shawl, and, followed by several greyhounds, the tall, haughty- 
looking woman might be seen walking at a rapid rate across 
the great grass meadows which led to the river. The two 
young men, who were in their punt, saw her coming at a 
great distance, and imagining that something extraordinary 
must have occurred to bring her thither at such a rapid 
pace, they stood up in the boat and gazed towards her in 
wondering enquiry. Mrs. Bethell saw that they were 
looking, and gave a rapid wave of her white handkerchief, 
which soon brought them to land and into a rapid walk 
towards her. Her hot and flushed aspect, as they drew 
near, and the large document in her hand, convinced them 



298 SIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 

that something uncommon had occurred, but could give 
them no conception of that reality which burst upon them 
as they read the deed which the exulting mother put into 
their hands. 

"There is a G-od yet!" said Mrs. Bethell, in great ex- 
citement. " Conscience has been too much for Sir Peter. 
He could not shut out that — it has followed him into his 
great lonely hall, into his closet, into his bed. It has wrung 
the cup of oil from him." 

" But it is wonderful ! most wonderful !" said the youths, 
" Sir Peter cannot be so bad as we have thought him. This 
is good— it is generous !" 

" Good ! generous !" said their mother. " Good, to dis- 
gorge what was too torturing to retain ? — Generous, to 
restore but apart of what was not his own ? See ! he gives 
it up only these three years hence — and till then only a half 
of its income." 

But the youths did not sympathise with the mother's un- 
satisfied feeling. They did not trouble themselves for what 
was withheld — they were only too bewilderingly rapturous 
over what was so unexpectedly gained. The three returned 
homeward in eager and joyful discussion of the strange 
event. A world of new views, feelings, prospects, and 
speculations came pouring in upon them. They were at 
once wealthy — they would be more so : they would be one 
day — they felt quite assured of that now — in possession of 
all the domains and the honours of the family. 

A new turn was at once given to their plans of life. In- 
stead of Walter remaining at home, both of the brothers 
were to go at once to the University. They were to be edu- 
cated in a style befitting the future heads of the Bethell 
family. They purchased splendid horses for themselves, 
engaged a manservant to attend them, laid in a stock of 
the most fashionable clothes, and of every thing becoming 
young gentlemen of their expectations ; and on the com- 
mencement of the November term betook themselves to 
Oxford. 

The widow Bethell remained in her old farm-house at 
Wintanrik. She remained to manage the farm, but she 
assumed a state in accordance with the brightening fortunes 



SIR PETEE AND HIS PIGEON. 299 

of herself and sons. She now had her handsome close car- 
riage, though drawn only by one horse ; but it was driven 
by a man in the Bethell livery, and she looked on the lands 
and woods of Wintanrik with all the pride of the lady of the 
domain. Sir Peter had again withdrawn to his secluded 
life : he never came across the widow's path, — but he was 
not asleep. He had now a great object in life : he had lost 
an estate, but he had gained in that loss an interest — an en- 
gagement which had a wonderful attraction for him. He 
watched and— waited. 






CHAPTEE II. 



THE SPIEIT OF LOVE. 



We will now take our stand ten years later down the stream 
of time than the event which closed our last chapter. Sir 
Peter had watched the development of that splendid career 
which was to follow the possession of Wintanrik in the lives 
of his two nephews. Sir Peter had a profound belief in the 
vanity of human wishes, and the still greater vanity of 
human possessions. He had studied men in the records of 
the past, and had felt in his own case the seal of history 
again stamped unmistakeably on the race. He remembered 
the soaring dreams of the two boys in the summer-house, — 
they were burned as with a hot iron into his brain by the 
strictures on himself with which they had been accompanied. 
Had he not himself had such day-dreams ? Had he not 
vowed that when property and power became his, they should 
for once be disenthralled from selfishness and meanness ? 
Have not all men such golden moments in youth — such 
soarings into the ideal world of beauty and virtue ? And 
has one man ever realized them ? Do not the old powers 
still enslave us ? Does not the old clay still weigh down 
the advancing soul ? 

Such were Sir Peter's secret thoughts ; and he would have 
been grievously disappointed had the result been better than 
he expected : he would have felt it as a condemnation of 
himself. But Sir Peter was not doomed to such mortifi- 
cation. Ten years had gone on, and where were the " mar- 
tial laurels and the palms of peace ?" "Where was the great 
and patriotic general ? where the Howard of Wintanrik ? 
There was no such noble hero. There was no school in 
Wintanrik, — no old people sitting in Arcadian comfort by 
their own iire-sides ; but the workhouse still stood and 
received its regular supply of age and misery. 

Sir Peter chuckled secretly to himself, and had a species 
of happiness in the errors and follies of those kinsmen who 



SIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 301 

had freely censured him. When he looked towards Win- 
tanrik it seemed as if the scenes of his own life had been 
acted over again. There had been another wave in the ocean 
of time, and it was a precise facsimile of the one that went 
before it. There were two brothers at deadly strife about 
the very property which was to have made them magnificent 
benefactors to their country and their fellow- men. There 
was one brother in power and possession, and another cursing 
him as a robber and oppressor. 

Walter, the eldest son of the widow Bethell, had shown 
himself of a gay and open-hearted disposition. He had 
even entered the army as if contemplating the career he had 
promised to pursue : but there the matter ended. Even 
while at college, he had far outrun his share of the income 
allowed by Sir Peter. He had been even there compelled 
to borrow from the careful Francis. Francis was careful to 
an extraordinary degree. He lent Walter all he wanted ; 
he even mortgaged his share of the estate of Wintanrik to 
supply Walter with the means of purchasing his commission 
in a cavalry regiment. But on this ground he assumed, on 
Walter's coming of age, the stewardship of the Wintanrik 
estate which then came to them. Francis found the cares 
of this stewardship quite enough for his young shoulders. 
He built no school — he took no measures to secure a com- 
fortable continuance of the aged villagers at their own 
firesides. How could he do that, and manage this property 
with a strict regard to the interests of Walter as well as of 
his own ? For his own, — for himself, — if he had been free 
and unfettered, he would have made sacrifices, he would 
have done all that his youthful fancy proposed. But now, 
he had Walter's interests to look to : he stood in a po- 
sition of nice responsibility — he had a duty of solemn religious 
justice to perform. Walter took no care of his own interests : 
he lived in London, or with his regiment, and sent con- 
tinually demands for money which were never refused. 
Walter never asked for any balance-sheet, any settlement : 
he confided in the careful attention of Francis to the estate 
and the accounts. What a delicate situation for Francis ! 
But Francis kept the most masterly books. He was careful 
precisely as Walter showed a want of care. There was not 
a penny which he did not put down, and whenever his 



302 SIR PETEB AND HIS PIOEOff. 

accounts should be called for, they would be found most 
admirable and accurate. 

That time came. At the end of the ninth year Walter 
had occasion for a large sum : he sent desiring Francis to 
remit it, and received an answer from Francis that he was 
sorry that he could not oblige his brother, but really there 
was nothing in hand. Walter wrote a hasty and even 
furious letter, demanding what Francis meant, and Francis 
in reply sent him up a vast mass of accounts accompanied 
by a most masterly balance-sheet, verified by an eminent 
accountant, showing simply that Walter had overdrawn his 
share of the proceeds during those nine years to something 
more than his whole share of his estate. 

Walter stood confounded and almost senseless at the 
revelation of that awful fact. Such a suspicion had never 
for a moment stolen across his brain. He had no idea that 
he was overdrawing his share. Francis never hinted any 
such thing ; he never breathed a remonstrance. Why had 
he not remonstrated ? Why had he not warned him ? But 
Francis again asked, whether that was his business ? 
Whether it was not quite natural for him to suppose Walter 
understood his own affairs ? Whether it was not sufficient 
and more than sufficient that he had taken all the care of 
the property, and never let Walter feel a want or an incon- 
venience ? There were, he added again, the accounts. Let 
them be examined by the best accountants — he wished it to 
be done in justification of himself; and if there were an 
error, he would be most happy to correct it. Walter accord- 
ingly put the papers in the hands of a lawyer, who put them 
into those of an eminent accountant, but not a flaw could 
be found in them. There were moneys advanced during 
the three years at Oxford ; there was money advanced for 
the purchase of a commission ; there were advances, and 
large ones, beyond the share of income, through nine years, 
and there was interest on all the sums furnished in advance, 
and all those exceeding the balance of annual rent due; 
which balance, owing to the accumulation of debt against 
Walter, had for some years been very small indeed. The 
upshot was that Francis's accounts were pronounced scrupu- 

ously correct, and that Walter was a ruined man ! 
But Walter did not agree to that view of the case. He 



SIB PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 303 

regarded himself as infamously swindled by Francis, and 
Francis felt himself grossly injured by these imputations on 
his honour. The feud between the brothers was terrible. 
"Walter raged fearfully, and declared that even if the accounts 
of Francis were correct on the surface, the estate was of 
more value in the market than was represented by the rental, 
and insisted on the whole being sold that he might receive 
his just share. Francis, with a meekness and air of justice' 
which told wonderfully in his favour, offered to have the 
estate valued, and pay over to "Walter any balance in his 
favour. But this Walter only regarded as another deep 
scheme of Francis to wrest him out of the estate and keep 
it for himself. He could bear the idea of the estate going 
into the hands of strangers, but not of its becoming solely 
and wholly Francis's. That, he believed, was what Francis 
had been aiming at and scheming for all those years, — and 
perhaps he was not far wrong. 

So there the matter stood. Every day only added to the 
growing heat and enmity between the two brothers. Their 
hatred towards each other grew to something terrible. 
"Walter did not even hesitate to vow vengeance against the 
cool and cautious Francis, as Chute had formerly done 
against Sir Peter. This was a climax which gave a bias to 
the otherwise impartial interest with which Sir Peter had 
watched the progress of this fearful fraternal division. He 
now felt these cases of Francis and himself identified. He 
began to sympathise with Francis, — that is, in his own man- 
ner, and to conceive a violent repugnance to "Walter. Mean- 
time Mrs. Bethell, the mother of the contending brothers, 
having in vain striven to reconcile them, and by her own 
warmth of temper only the more embroiled them, fled from 
the scene ; and uniting her small income with that of another 
now widowed sister, they took up their abode in the distant 
west of England. Francis Bethell was left alone in pos- 
session of "Wintanrik. 

During the years through which these affairs had been 
silently progressing towards this unhappy condition, there 
had been gradually developing itself in Sir Peter Bethell' s 
life an element of peace and love. A little light sprung up, 
which had grown and grown till it had diffused itself through 
his otherwise gloomy mansion, though it could not brighten 



804* SIB PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 

the world without to his vision. His brother Elliott, a 
captain in the army, had fallen early in his career, leaving a 
wife and infant daughter. His wife had soon followed him, 
and had sent to Sir Peter as her dying present the little 
orphan girl. Sir Peter was taken by surprise at this bequest, 
and would probably have consigned the infant to a distant 
nurse, on a small allowance, if the child's nurse, who loved 
it as her own, had not made the journey to Hatten Manor 
with the dying woman's letter in her pocket, and the child 
in her arms. She suddenly appeared thus equipped before 
Sir Peter ; and instead of to a distant abode, she and the 
child were only consigned to a distant part of the house. 

Eor a long time Sir Peter saw nothing of the infant, and 

enquired nothing after it. It was tended and cared for by 

its fond nurse, who avoided Sir Peter from fear, and was 

contented that her little charge was well, and was fast 

winning the affections of the whole household except its 

master. But ever and anon Sir Peter was passing the child 

and its nurse in his walks about his grounds. For a time 

he appeared to take no notice of it, but at length began to 

cast a grave glance at it as he passed, and as the nurse made 

her curtsey, to the poor woman's surprise and great joy, the 

Baronet one day stopped, patted the little girl's cheek, and 

asked her name. He did not even know its name ! But 

from that time Sir Peter never passed it without some notice. 

He smiled, and the little creature smiled again, and stretched 

out its arms to him. The heart of Sir Peter was won from 

that hour, and a new and unknown feeling came into it. 

He began to ruminate in his walks and rides on the early 

days when its father, Elliot, and the impetuous Chute were 

boys with him. Their youthful sports together, their 

rambles in the woods, their boatings and their shootings, 

were before him like a strange dream, and the warmth which 

was thus awakened in his soul all gathered round the little 

Herminia, and she became the one thing in life that was 

precious to him. Very soon the little Minnie, or Minna, as 

she was called, might be found tumbling on the floor of Sir 

Peter's library for hours, while he sat solitary at his desk or 

over his book. As she grew and became a lively chattering 

little creature, betook her by the hand in his rambles through 

his woods and fields, carrying her in his arms and on his 



SIE PETEE AND HIS PIGEON. 305 

"back when she was tired. Sir Peter knew every bird and 
other creature that haunted his estate — every flower and in- 
sect which gave a summer charm to it ; for while his heart had 
been turned from his fellow man, his eye at least had been 
daily conversant with nature, and he came to feel in himself 
a deep interest in all her features and her living things, 
for in them he thought there was no deceit. 

He was now a daily wanderer amongst these, and the 
little Minna was his daily companion. He gathered flowers 
for her : he taught her to listen to and distinguish the 
notes of birds ; he made her conscious of the pleasant 
solitude of the woods ; and when she fell asleep amid all her 
bright chatter and quick enquiries, he would sit down and 
watch by her, spreading his handkerchief over her face, or 
driving the flies away from her little honied lips with a 
branch of some soft and fragrant shrub. As Minna grew 
into a little lively girl, full of sense, spirit, and vivacity, 
she might be seen skipping along the dim wood like a 
white butterfly, before his tall and dark figure. At other 
times she was seated before him on his horse on a soft little 
cushion ; and as she grey older, there was a pony trotting 
alongside of Sir Peter's horse, and Minna was upon it 
talking and laughing joyfully, or listening with grave face 
and bright thoughtful eyes to what he was relating. In 
short, wherever Sir Peter Bethell was seen, there was seen 
Minna too ; they were inseparable, and the people began to 
name them — Sir Peter and his Pigeon. 

As Minna grew into girlhood it was necessary that she 
should be educated ; but Sir Peter would not allow her to be 
separated from him on any account. He procured her an 
accomplished governess, and the best masters from the 
neighbouring towns were engaged to give her every 
possible instruction. All this went on in a distinct part 
of the house. Sir Peter rarely saw any of these ministers of 
knowledge, or they him ; but he carefully noted Minna's 
progress, and, though invisible, stimulated and secured the 
necessary duties. Every day, during the hours when Minna was 
freed from her school labours, she spent with her uncle; and in 
the fine mornings and evenings they might be seen on horse- 
back riding up the pleasant valley of Much-Hatten, beneath 
the steep uplands on which shewed themselves the woods and 



306 SIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 

vine-covered summer-house ofWintanrik. Years passed on 
thus : Minna was a young woman of eighteen. She was of 
a small but exquisite figure. Her hair was the richest 
chesnut brown, and her countenance was as fresh as the 
rose, delicate in its features as the lily, and full of vivacity 
and intelligence. Her step, and her whole frame, were 
light and buoyant as those of a fawn, and on horseback 
she displayed an ease and grace that were perfect. No 
objects were so familiar to the people all round the neigh- 
bourhood as Sir Peter and his Pigeon. "Wherever rode or 
walked Sir Peter, there was Minna by his side, sweet and 
smiling as the early morning sky, and seeming to diffuse 
a pleasant serenity even over the grave aspect of the shy 
and secluded Sir Peter. At home Minna was a perpetual 
light and life in the house. She sung to her uncle and read 
to him, and through the ample rooms and galleries of that 
old mansion lent a charm which seemed to make everyone for- 
get that it was really solitary. Sir Peter's existence was wholly 
wrapped up in Minna, who was to him not a niece but the 
most precious of daughters : and for Minna herself, who 
knew nothing and had seen nothing of the world except in 
books, her whole being was consecrated in that isolated life, 
and in attachment to her uncle. She had by her own bright, 
pure, and loving spirit called forth by degrees in the heart 
of Sir Peter a softer and better train of thoughts and feelings. 
He saw and felt daily that there were truth and devoted 
affection in the world. 

It was at this crisis that the great feud betwixt her 
cousins "Walter and Francis broke out. Sir Peter had with- 
held the knowledge of them and their affairs as long and 
as completely from Minna as he could : but it was impossible 
to prevent her gradually acquiring a considerable amount 
of information on that subject. There is nothing so intensely 
interesting to young people as their own family history, and 
especially when there are circumstances of unusual signifi- 
cance or mystery contained in it ; and there are always 
channels through which it will find its way to the most 
guarded quarters. Minna was too quick and inquisitive not 
to have learned a great deal from the whole servants, though 
mixed with the distortions which a partial and forbidden 
medium is sure to impart ; and her enquiries of Sir Peter 




(2 



Sir Peters Pigeon 



SIB PETER AKD HIS PIGEOK. 307 

often startled him ; and these had led him to eommnnicate 
to her facts with his own colouring which her faith in him 
made her receive as gospel. 

Of these two contending cousins she knew little personally. 
"Walter she had never seen; he had always been at a dis- 
tance, and by Sir Peter he was represented as a dissipated 
and incorrigible spendthrift. Undoubted heir he was of 
Much-Hatten, and Sir Peter always congratulated himself 
that that at least he could not waste, and as invariably 
added that such parts of the estate as were not in the entail 
he should take care that he never possessed. Of Prancis 
she knew little more. She had never seen him, except 
casually passing riding, till of late, when Sir Peter had 
allowed him occasionally to come to Much-Hatten to consult 
with him on the difficulties with his brother. But there 
was something in him which Minna did not like ; her nature 
seemed to recoil from his, and Sir Peter was well pleased 
that it should be so. He warned her, as she loved him, to 
have nothing to do with these young men. 

Of late, however, the feud had run so high that Minna 
could not avoid being deeply interested in it. There were 
ridings to and fro of Prancis and Sir Peter's servants. There 
were letters, some of which Sir Peter read with a dark 
frown, and flung into the fire with the word " Monster !" 
and others which seemed to excite him in an extraordinary 
manner, but the actual contents of which Minna could not 
prevail upon her uncle to communicate. " Keep apart from 
this wicked business, my child," Sir Peter would say ; " it 
is not good for your bright sweet spirit to sully itself with." 
Yet she did not fail to catch enough of the events to learn 
that Prancis was in the possession of all the property, and that 
"Walter was in extremest distress. She listened to Sir Peter, 
but somehow could not prevent herself feeling a strange 
interest in the fate of "Walter. Sir Peter was startled and 
astonished by the perception of this feeling, and laboured 
the more to convince her of the worthlessness of Walter, 
telling her that he was a reckless and empty boaster. 

One day Sir Peter and Minna took their ride to the woods 
of "Wintanrik. They went to the summer-house, and 
dismounting, Sir Peter hung the bridles of their horses to 
the rings in the wall of the summer-house there fixed for 



308 SIR PETER AKD HIS PIGEOW. 

such a purpose ; and the two ascended into the chamber, and 
gazed for some time over the clear autumn landscape. When 
they turned at length from the window, Sir Peter bade 
Minna seat herself. He then told her of the time when 
he overheard his two nephews relating all the wonders they 
would accomplish if that property were theirs. " I have tried 
them," said iSir Peter, with a stern and bitter expression on 
his face, " and the result has been just what I knew it 
would be." 

Minna had listened to the story with wonder. She sat 
pale and silent. Sir Peter looked at her, and said, " My 
sweet Minna, you will now no longer, I think, pity those 
false young men, nor wonder at my contempt of them." 
Minna looked at Sir Peter with a glance that was full of 
the deepest sadness ; and going silently to him, she knelt 
down by his knee, as she often did in their hours of free and 
affectionate intercourse, and laying her soft white hands on 
his right hand as it rested on his knee, she looked up into 
his face with eyes in which stood glittering tears, and said, 
" My dear uncle, you did a noble deed ! — and yet, was it so 
wise and well as it might have been ? You raised my cousins 
to sudden affluence; but they were only boys, and their 
mother was a haughty and ambitious woman, who had herself 
risen suddenly from her own sphere of life. Oh ! my dearest 
uncle,if you had given these poor boysthe benefit of your kind 
experience, as you have given it to me, how different it might 
have been ! If you had been a father to them, as you have 
been a most loving and noble father to me — if you had won 
their confidence, and warned them of their danger, and 
strengthened in their hearts those beautiful visions of good, 
for they were beautiful, which they entertained — what might 
they not have now been !" 

" Do you blame me, Minna ?" asked Sir Peter, somewhat 
sternly. 

" No, dearest uncle, I do not blame you, you meant well ; 
but how I do pity them — Walter especially ! And, dearest 
uncle, is it yet too late ? Might you not by your powefui 
influence stay these frightful dissensions ; — might you not 
intercede and settle the difficulty, and give Walter a new 
chance ?" 

" A new chance !" said Sir Peter, rising angrily. " Poor 



SIR PET.EB AND HIS PIGEON. 309 

child ! you do not know what you say. A new chance ! — a 
new folly !" As he said this, Sir Peter descended the stairs 
of the summer-house ; he loosed the horses, and they 
mounted and rode away in silence. But they had not ridden 
far when they suddenly came upon a young man sitting in 
deep thought at the foot of a tree. As if startled by 
their presence he rose up hastily, and gazed at them with 
an excited air. He was a young man of singularly hand- 
some and gentlemanly appearance ; but his countenance was 
pale as death, and there seemed a misery in it that was un- 
speakable. Sir Peter's face darkened fearfully as he saw 
him, and the young man on his part, coming firmly forward, 
said, " Sir Peter ! uncle ! hear me ! In Grod's name listen 
to me for a moment I" 

" Walter Bethell !" said Sir Peter, pointing toward the 
summer-house, " years ago I listened to your vauntings : 
and what has come of it ? Let me pass," 

"I will not vindicate myself, uncle," said "Walter Bethell: 
" I confess all my follies and unworthiness ; but give me one 
more trial — see justice done me ;. and if I do not redeem 
myself, then I do not know what there is in me." 

" Let me pass ! again said Sir Peter, fiercely ; and pushed 
on his horse desperately, leaving his nephew standing with 
a look of despair. Minna galloped on at his side in silence, 
but tears were dropping from her eyes in torrents, and her 
frame seemed shaken by the violence of her emotions. That 
evening there was a deep, constrained silence between Sir 
Peter and Minna, though Minna strove affectionately to 
appease her uncle's anger by every gentle attention that she 
could show, by breathing no whisper relative to what had 
passed, and by playing on the piano the pieces that Sir Peter 
liked best. The next morning Sir Peter seemed to have 
dismissed his anger ; he was kind and loving to Minna, and 
Minna smiled and beamed with the lustre of a summer morn- 
ing in which the sun is radiant though you yet feel the sha- 
dow of a cloud. That day Sir Peter said he had occupation 
which demanded him in the library, and Minna put on her 
bonnet, and wandered first through the shrubberies, and then 
up the valley. She seemed drawn the very way they had 
gone the day before ; and she went on and on. Prom the 



810 SIR PETElt AND HIS PIGEON. 

steep hills on her left there came down straggling woods, 
and on the right stretched vast meadows. Suddenly, as she 
pursued her way along this path, Walter Bethell issued from 
amongst the trees, and advanced to meet her. Minna did 
not feel at all astonished ; it seemed as if she had expected 
it. Her thoughts all through her walk were of what had 
taken place the day before, and Walter Bethell' s presence 
seemed only a part of it. As he drew near, bowing re- 
spectfully, he said, " Cousin Herminia, I trust I do not 
alarm you." 

" I am not at all alarmed," replied Minna, with a look of 
the most artless confidence. 

" I saw," continued Walter, " that yesterday, cousin, you 
pitied me ; and I have watched all morning on the hill if 
possibly I might get a sight of you. Cousin, you are the 
only person in the world that can aid me. I am driven to 
distraction by my own brother. I cannot long escape the 
emissaries of the law that he has set upon me. I ask nothing 
but justice and a new start in life ; and that my uncle by a 
word could secure me. Is there no return for the penitent 
sinner ? Shall I be crushed in my youth, and by my own 
flesh and blood ? And will you not, my fair cousin, who are 
so good and so happy, will you not try to help me ?" 

Minna's tears were again flowing fast. " Cousin Walter," 
she said, " Grod knows that I would move heaven and earth 
to aid you ; but it is not so easy to move Sir Peter. But I 
believe you, cousin Walter ; I believe your earnest pleadings 
for a fresh trial of life-; it were hard were it to be refused 
you. As Grod lives I will do all that I can; but do not 
build too mnch on a poor weak creature like me." 

"May Grod in heaven bless you, Herminia!" said the 
young man, seizing the hand of his cousin, and kissing it in 
great agitation ; " then I shall be saved ! You will give me 
a new life ; for you, and no one else, can." 

"No, no," said Minna; " do not say that — do not hope 
too much. I am not sure myself ; but I will exert all the 
power that God gives me." 

The two cousins stood long engaged in earnest conversa- 
tion. Walter Bethell sometimes spoke vehemently, and 
sometimes seemed lost in a silence of indignant passion; and 



SIB, PETEB AND HIS PIGEON". 311 

Minna's tears now flowed freely, and again she seemed filled 
with resentful thoughts of what was told her. As she 
turned at length homewards, "Walter continued to accompany 
her, and spoke in an earnest low tone, as though he could 
never quit the subject. When they came where the hills 
changed their course, and the roofs of Hatten Manor were 
seen above the trees, Minna paused and requested her cousin 
to retire. He disappeared in the wood, and she hastened 
homewards. 

From that day there was an active and unceasing endea- 
vour on the part of Minna to bring about the reconciliation 
of her uncle and cousin. She pursued her object with the 
tact of a loving woman's heart ; but she felt that there was 
an unsleeping spirit in operation to counteract her exertions. 
There were daily ridings of Francis Bethell to and fro, daily 
passing and repassing of letters ; and Walter, with whom 
she had established through a confidential servant a safe 
communication, assured her in the most urgent terms that 
he was pursued with such impetuosity that if any thing were 
done it must be at once, or it would be too late. That even- 
ing, — it was ten days from the first interview of the two 
cousins, — Minna again knelt at the knee of Sir Peter, and 
prayed him for her sake to forgive Walter, and open life to 
him anew. 

Sir Peter sat some time in deep thought ; but he at length 
said, " You do not know what you ask, my sweet child ! you 
do not know this hollow world. Yet, I will confess to you 
that I have thought much on what you have said to me : for 
your sake I will save this prodigal once more." 

Minna started up, with flashing eyes and flushed mien, 
crying, " Then he must know this instant !" " Stop," said 
Sir Peter, " I will let him know." " Then do it at once, 
dearest uncle," said Minna, rapidly placing paper and ink 
before him ; and, as he began to write, she softly stole from 
the room, and the next moment was flying up the shrubbery. 
Walter had informed her that at eight o'clock that night he 
would await the news of her endeavour in the rustic shed 
re. It was past that hour, — a clear moonlight night ; and 
as Minna's light figure flew up the walk, Walter Bethell 
eame anxiously forward to learn his fate. Minna ran on 



312 SIR PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 

almost breathlessly. "All is right !" she exclaimed; and 
the agitated young man, speechless with joy, seized her hand 
almost violently, and kissed it impetuously and with tears. 

Por some time the two stood as if unable to express their 
mutual joy at this happy event ; and after a rapid exchange 
of words, Minna saying, " To-morrow, and all will be well !" 
she turned and hastened again towards the house as fleetly 
as she came. 

Sir Peter had written a note to Walter, desiring him to 
come to him at ten o'clock the next morning. Minna re- 
ceived the note, and dispatched a servant with it to Walter, 
who was expecting it in the rustic shed. The next morning 
"Walter had a long closeting with his uncle ; and when they 
reappeared together in the drawing-room, Sir Peter said to 
Minna, as he formally introduced her to Walter, " Tour 
cousin is about to join his regiment, and I trust we shall 
hereafter be better known to each other." Minna expressed 
her usually frank and undisguised delight at the reconcilia- 
tion. She could see that Walter had made a very favourable 
impression on her uncle, and she flung her arms around Sir 
Peter's neck, as he took his seat on his accustomed easy chair,. 
saying, with sparkling eyes, and cheeks that bloomed like 
the rose, " Good, dear uncle L you have made me so happy f 
I do so want to see all our family united, and loving each 
other as a good family should!" 

" That shall not be wanting on my part," said Sir Peter, 
gravely, and yet with a loving smile at Minna. 

" Nor mine," said Walter Eethell, solemnly, and evidently 
affected. 

" Amen !" said Sir Peter, " Grod, in his goodness, granfe 
it may be so !" 

Sir Peter had invited Walter to spend the day there, and 
on the morrow he was to set off for London, near which his 
regiment lay. Sir Peter proposed a long ride, and during 
that, and for the whole remainder of the day, it was more 
and more evident that he was unexpectedly pleased with his 
nephew. There was an open, manly, and amiable character 
about him, that seemed to win insensibly on all that came 
near him ; and Sir Peter felt that if the young man had but 
strength to resist the seductions of society, so easily fallen 



SIB PETES AHD HIS PT0EO3V 313 

into by a temperament like his, he shonld have much satis- 
faction in him. Walter had made him the most solemn 
promises on this head ; and now he had a new motive to 
steel and strengthen him, — and that was, the love of his 
consin Herminia. To him — so lovely, so open-hearted, so 
liberally accomplished, andyet so simply and ardently good — 
she had appeared as an angel from heaven : his whole soul 
was devotion to her ; and he saw — for Herminia, in her iso- 
lated life and education, had not learnt to conceal her real 
feelings* — that she was full of affeetion to him. 

"Walter Bethell did not leave Much-Hatten without an 
assurance that, if he maintained well the new trial of life 
that awaited him, not only the hereditary estate, but the 
heart of its beautiful inhabitant, was his own. He went, 
and from month to month the best accounts came, not only 
from Walter himself, but from the Colonel of his regiment, 
to whom Sir* Peter had written to recommend his nephew to 
his particular notice. Then eame a sudden shock to Minna ; 
it was the announcement that the regiment was ordered 
abroad for active service. But this was the most fortunate 
circumstance that could have occurred for Walter. There, 
amid great and exciting events, there was no temptation to 
him but that of winning a brilliant name. His courage and 
military talent soon became conspicuous : he was, ere long, , 
appointed aid-de-camp to the commanding general, and sent 
to Minna the most glowing letters of active enjoyment, — in, 
all which Sir Peter manifested a lively sympathy. 

The influence of Minna was now exerted to inspire Sir 
Peter with a kindly feeling to the whole family. It. was her 
ambition to soothe the asperities which had so long rankled 
in the family — to cultivate a spirit of union and mutual con- 
ciliation. She extended this to Prancis, visiting him at 
Wintanrik, and giving him assurances of the cordial recon- 
cilement of Walter, who renounced all claims on that pro- 
perty. This did not fail of its effect even with Prancis. 
Avarice is the worst of passions to hope much change from ; 
but Prancis was still young, and. it was a profound satisfac- 
tion for him to feel that Wintanrik was wholly and undis- 
putedly his own. He was extremely friendly to Herminia ; 
came frequently to^ Much-Hatten ;*-- and by degrees tha 



3J4 SIE PETER AND HIS PIGEON. 

bright, warm, genial nature of Minna worked an evident 
improvement in his tone of feeling. Minna did not hesitate 
to call on the mother of Walter and Francis, Mrs. Chute 
Bethell, who now came on a long visit to Wintanrik ; and 
it was amazing to see the different eyes with which even Sir 
Peter and she, his haughty and old enemy, came to look on 
each other. Mrs. Bethell had learned from her son "Walter 
not only the generous conduct of his uncle Sir Peter, who 
had discharged all Walter's debts, andgiven him the strongest 
assurances of his friendship and support, if he continued to 
deserve them, but also the relation in which Minna stood to 
Walter's future. It is wonderful what a new aspect such a 
new and bright medium can confer on things. 

Mrs. Bethell saw her son Walter not only the heir of the 
old family estate of Much-Hatten, but also the happy hus- 
band of the lovely and kind young woman who had so warmly 
brought about this auspicious revolution. She admitted 
most zealously the justice — and more, the magnanimity — of 
Sir Peter ; and he now saw in her not only a very fine, ma- 
tronly woman, but a very able and sagacious one. In fact, 
a new tone had entirely superseded the old one in the 
Bethell family. Over the money-loving nature of Francis 
the bright sunshine of the time cast a lucid veil. 

And as for Sir Peter, there was a great light burning, as 
it were, in his conscience, and showing him how infinitely 
superior was the philosophy of Herminia — the philosophy of 
a loving heart — to his own, that of a caustic and malicious 
enjoyment of the punishment which human weaknesses 
bring upon their possessors. This light seemed to cast its 
flame back over his whole life ; he seemed to see all his 
actions as a dying man sees them. Oh, how different to 
what they had ever seemed before ! He saw his hardness 
and selfishness towards Chute : he beheld the evil spirit in 
which he had made over Wintanrik to his nephews : how he 
had tempted them, and left them in their temptation to fall : 
how he had fostered the social follies of Walter, by putting 
into his hand the means of dissipation, without accompany- 
ing them by a friendly guiding hand, and counsels that 
should have supplied the parental care : how he had fostered, 
too, the avarice of Francis, and allowed a spirit to assert a 



SIB PETEB AND HIS PIGEON. 315 

mastery over him that perhaps no circumstances would 
entirely be able to root out again. All this he now saw, 
and exerted himself to correct as much as possibly in 
him lay. 

Years went on, and Sir Peter and his Pigeon might be 
seen pursuing their rides up the old valley, and amongst the 
woods of Wintanrik; — years again, and there was another 
in company, Walter Bethell, now a man of high military 
rank and fame, and the husband of the happy Herminia ; — 
years, and a little flock of joyous pigeons might be seen in 
the wood-walks and the fields around Much-Hatten. Tears 
again, and a tall, pale, aged man, but with a countenance 
full of benevolence and a serene happiness, might be seen 
drawn along in a handsome carriage up the old valley, and 
through the woods where Sir Peter and his Pigeon used to 
ride ; it was Sir Peter, now old, but blest in the constant 
attention and affections of his inseparable Minna, surrounded 
also by her gay and happy children. Tears again, and Sir 
Peter had vanished from the scene, and two tall, middle-aged 
gentlemen, accompanied by two or three handsome youths, 
might be seen riding in the same haunts ; they were "Walter 
and Francis Bethell, now not as they might have been had 
not Sir Peter's scheme fortunately been crossed by the 
better spirit of Herminia, but united by a sober family 
attachment, which grew with years. Francis was always a 
careful, arid almost penurious man ; he never married, but 
was too much attached to the young nephews and nieces 
who were growing up at Much-Hatten, and too proud of the 
family name, to think for a moment of the estate of Win- 
tanrik being severed from that of Much-Hatten. They are 
now one ; Wintanrik being looked upon, according to the 
will of Francis, as at once inalienable, and as the provision 
for the younger children of the Bethell family. 

Tears have again gone on, and now the gay and lovely 
Herminia — gay at heart, and lovely to the last in the beauty 
which the sunshine of the heart gives to the countenance of 
age — has disappeared. Tet still the peasantry talk by their 
winter firesides of Sir Peter and his Pigeon : they declare 
that they still see them riding, on moonlight nights, up the 
old valley, and ascending the woods to the summer-house of 



316 SIB PETEB AND HIS PIGEON. 

"Wintanrik ; and as the traveller sees its gilded vane flash in 
the sun, he involuntarily falls into a silence, and the memory 
of the good and wise-hearted woman who smiled away all 
the crookedness, the curses, and the evil from the long- 
divided family of Much-Hatten, seems to follow him, — for it 
lives for ever in that solemn old English valley ; and he only 
awakes to more every-day thoughts when he catches the 
radiant gleam of the roofs and the church spires of the 
next town 



- 



THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS 

OB, 

NEIGHBOUES' QTJAEEELS. 



CHAPTEE I. 



THE HOMES OP WOOD-NOOK. 



I haedlt know how to describe "Wood-Nook so as to give 
an idea of its remarkable pleasantness. It was a sort of 
woodland promontory, which ran out from the heights of 
Needwood forest into a vast level expanse of rich meadow 
land, through which meandered the beautiful river Dove. 

"Wood-Nook only contained about forty acres of land ; it 
was, nevertheless, scattered over with old oaks and hollies 
of an immense growth, the remains of the forest, and which 
added greatly to the value and beauty of the place. It was 
about equally divided between two proprietors, whose 
fathers and even grandfathers had lived there before them, 
and whose habitations were set down among these tall and 
leafy trees like nests in a wood. 

About two miles from "Wood-Nook stood a pleasant old- 
fashioned town, the road from which to the forest ran close 
by, and from which, also, a footpath, crossing the Nook, 
led past the two homesteads into the delicious meadows 
beyond. This was a favourite summer evening stroll for the 
townspeople ; and as I myself happened to be one of these, 
I knew Wood-Nook and its picturesque cottages from the 
days of my earliest childhood. Turning, then, to the left, 



S18 THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OB, 

on the forest road, you ascended a steep and bowery lane, 
which soon brought you to the first of these homesteads, the 
oldpartly thatched and partly red-tiled cottage of George May, 
the basket-maker. The cottage stood close by the road, with 
its garden beside it, as full of flowers as it would hold, and 
with roses and honeysuckles climbing up the house side, and 
even garlanding the chimney. At the opposite end of the 
cottage, and almost as large as the cottage itself, was the 
shop where George May and his handsome son Robert 
worked all day long, from one year's end to another, as their 
ancestors had done before them ; and against which were 
reared large bundles of peeled osiers, ready for use. It was 
wonderful how much comfort and humble prosperity had 
been* produced by this simple weaving of osiers. This little 
homestead, with its twenty acres of land, and its osier 
grounds down by the river, had been purchased by means of 
it. True, the Mays had for three generations been sober 
and industrious men ; and the present proprietor had given 
his children, two sons and a daughter, such a good " bring- 
ing up," that you could hardly match them through the 
whole neighbourhood. The Mays, nevertheless, had their 
troubles. The eldest son did not take kindly to the basket- 
making business, although he had been brought up to it 
from his boyhood : he ran away from home when he was 
nineteen, and had not been heard of for ten years. The 
daughter married a worthless drunken young man in a dis- 
tant town, and, dying within two years, left a little girl, 
which the grand-parents took ; for the father, marrying a 
woman of his own character, soon after the death of his first 
wife, emigrated to America. 

These troubles were, however, over and past : the mother 
lived in hope that George, her first-born, would return some 
day a prosperous man, for he was a well-disposed lad, she 
said, spite of his aversion to basket-making ; and the loss of 
the daughter seemed semewhat compensated for by the little 
Lucy, now between five and six, the darling of the grand- 
parents, and the idol of Eobert. The affection that this 
young man had for the child proved, in my opinion, that he 
was of a kind and amiable disposition : he constructed for 
her curious wicker-work chairs, and wove for her the most 
dainty little baskets, and might be seen, on Sunday after- 



NEIGHBOURS' QTTARBELS. 319 

noons, down in the osier-holts, or strolling about the mea- 
dows, with her on his arm, or leading her by the hand 
gathering flowers. Young May looked quite handsome 
when his face beamed with joy in the companionship of this 
little child. Susan Dalton thought so ; but we have not yet 
come to Susan, — we must see her father's cottage first. This 
was the second of the Wood-Nook homesteads, and the 
moment you saw it you almost preferred it to the first. 

"What a pleasant little spot it was ! The heavy thatch was 
overgrown with house-leek and golden-flowered stone-crop. 
A huge rosemary bush, interwoven with jasmine, covered 
the entire front ; from the midst of which the bright little 
diamond-paned windows looked out like cheerful eyes in a 
pleasant countenance. Just under the house, which was 
nestled into a warm sunny corner, stood a large number of 
bee-hives, from which there came all day long such a deli- 
cious buzz and hum as made every bo'dy think that industry 
must be the most cheerful thing in the world ; and, speaking 
of cheerful things, I am reminded of that which made this 
second home appear, even to a stranger, remarkably cheerful. 
This was, that somewhere or other about the place, either 
cleaning the house or fetching water from the well, or sitting 
sewing by the door, might be seen the pretty Susan, the 
only child of the Daltons. This Susan was a very attractive 
person to all the young men of the neighbourhood, because 
she was looked upon as an heiress ; for her father, like his 
neighbour George May, was the proprietor of the remaining 
portion of the "Wood-Nook land, with its well-grown timber 
and freehold messuage. 

L mentioned the well just now from which Susan Dalton 
might be seen fetching water. This, at the time I write of, 
was the only well at Wood-Nook : and a very picturesque 
old well it was, the water of which was so remarkably pure 
and cold, even in the hottest summers, that it was famed 
through the neighbourhood. It had been sunk by the father 
of the present James Dalton, and was a great convenience 
to both the cottages ; because, until this well was made, they 
had to fetch every drop of water from a little way-side 
spring, at five minutes' distance. It was a piece of good 
neighbourhood in old Dalton, who was at all the expense of 
the well, to allow the Mays free use of it. At first it was 



320 THE WOOD-NOOK WE-LLS ; OE, 

like a bond of friendship between them ; but, as time went 
on, they got used to it, and now it seemed almost to have 
become common property. And so it might have "become, 
had not the Daltons always received one shilling a year from 
the Mays as a nominal acknowledgment of their own right. 

As at the Mays' so there was at the end of the Daltons' 
cottage a lean-to, called " the shop," where James Dalton 
worked all day long, and all the year through, at his lathe, 
turning button-moulds. Formerly, when he was a young 
man, three lathes had been worked in this shop, for at that 
time the demand for wooden button-moulds was much 
greater than of late. Till within two or three years James 
Dalton had employed a journeyman to work with him ; but 
the trade grew worse and worse. Button-moulds were now 
either turned by machinery, or the demand was not so great, 
for Dalton had not more to do than would keep one lathe at 
work, nor even that steadily. 

James Dalton worked alone, and looked back gloomily to 
the better days that were gone ; and said with a sigh, many 
a time, to the passers by, who would stop at his window for 
a little chat, and to watch the curious work go forward, that 
before long there would be no demand for button moulds at 
all. This button-mould turner's shop was attractive also to 
children, who never failed to stop and pick, from the great 
heaps that lay all around, the most perfect of the perforated 
thin layers of wood from which the button-moulds had been 
cut, and which thus looked like coarse wooden lace, or little 
circular- paned window-frames. Hither came little Lucy 
from the Mays, attracted by the same object ; but not like 
them did she go when her search was accomplished : Lucy 
passed half her time with Susan Dalton. 

Poor James Dalton ! If his daughter's face was bright 
and cheerful, his own was often sad enough ; for he had 
many gloomy thoughts and fears, which nobody knew any 
thing about but a certain lawyer in the neighbouring town ; 
and these had reference to a mortgage which had remained 
upon his little property from the days of his father, who, 
having unluckily got into difficulty, had taken this means of 
relieving himself. It was now thirty years since the date 
of this mortgage ; and as trade had been good for many 
years after this time, it ought to have been cleared off; but 



321 

Dalton in his youth had not been as prudent as his neigh- 
bour, and now of late had found it impossible to pay his 
interest regularly, and he had melancholy forebodings that a 
time would come when he could not pay it at all. Every 
month added to his stock of button-moulds, till he had 
thousands of grosses in his shop ; and when the wholesale 
deaier came, he never cleared them off as he ought to have 
done ; so the poor man expected he should at last be driven 
out of his own shop by his own wares 

Another thing made matters much worse ; but this was a 
grievance of longer standing than the badness of trade, and 
one even more hopeless. Every market-day Dalton gzi 
drunk ; and when ho was drunk he was gloomy and morose. 
He never, in his younger, brighter days, had been, as many 
men are, jovial in liquor ; he was just the reverse, low- 
spirited and quarrelsome ; and therefore these Wednesday 
evenings were like a cloud on the rest of the week. G-eorge 
May also attended the market with his wares ; and he, like 
a good neighbour, had for many years seen Dalton safely 
away from the temptations of the market-day evening be- 
neath his own roof, where he could sleep off his drunkenness 
and his ill-humour. His wife and daughter, who were used 
to this weekly grief and vexation, were usually submissive 
under it. "When he got home they let him scold and quarrel, 
aud make himself as disagreeable and as miserable as he 
liked, their only endeavour being to get him to bed, saying 
to themselves, " It's all that nasty liquor ; he'll be himself 
again to-morrow !" 

But he never was quite himself again on the morrow ; for 
neither he nor they reflected that these constantly recurring 
fits of drunkenness and ill-humour weakened more and more 
his power of resisting evil, and made him less and less 
capable of bearing up against such trials as life had in store 
for him. 

Formerly, as I said, G-eorge May had been the best of 
neighbours : he had been a true friend in Dalton' s hour of 
weakness : they had been like brothers. They might be 
seen there on summer evenings chatting over each other's 
garden fence : they exchanged flowers and vegetables, and 
performed all sorts of neighbourly acts : they might be seen 
walking down together to the osier ground, or by the river, 

T 



322 THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS. 

and through the grassy meadows, on Sunday afternoons, 
talking over family affairs, and sympathising with each other. 
All this, however, at the time I am writing of, had ceased ; 
from little quarrels, which began on Wednesday nights — 
from grain-of-mustard-seed beginnings — coldness and ill-will 
had grown up into very considerable dimensions between 
the two men. Still the families remained friendly ; and 
though Robert May seldom crossed Mr. Dalton's threshold, 
yet he and Susan were understood to be lovers. They 
walked together with little Lucy every Sunday evening ; and 
Susan wore, every Sunday morning, a nosegay presented by 
Eobert on their way to church. 



CHAPTER II. 

AST OLIYEE. 

The whole of Wood-JSTook was grass land. The Daltons, 
since the button-monld trade had fallen off, had taken to. 
keeping cows and selling the milk. The Mays mowed their 
grass for hay, and took in cattle to graze in the autumn. 

It was now early spring, and, as Greorge May was about 
to shut up his fields for grass, he sent to his neighbour to 
desire him to secure his fences, which were bad, and ill-kept, 
as otherwise the cows, and especially a couple of calves which 
he was rearing, could not be kept out of the mowing grass. 
Erom this little affair a mighty quarrel arose. Dalton 
patched up the fence in the cheapest way possible, which, 
however, was very inedequate for the purpose : the calves 
soon broke through again, and May, tired of expostulating, 
drove them to the pound. This was really unneighbourly : 
it was an unheard-of thing : it was enough to excite bad 
feeling, if there had been no other cause> said Dalton : so 
said Mrs. Dalton, and so said Susan. 

The calves were brought back ; and poor Dalton, who was 
sadly pressed for money at that time, still took no more 
means to repair the fence than by sticking in a few thorns 
as he had done before. Again the calves burst through ; 
and this time May, who had consulted with a bustling little 
lawyer in the town, commenced an action for damages : here 
was hostility in earnest. Dalton could hardly believe his 
eyes : he swore that he would be revenged on his neighbour ; 
and the first thing he did was to forbid his daughter having 
any further intimacy with Eobert May. Susan was a girl 
of great spirit, and, much as she liked young May, she was 
very much hurt at his father's conduct -, and thinking that, 
with her pretty face and reputed property, she could have 



324 <£HE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OE, 

lowers in plenty, she soon found an opportunity of breaking 
off with her old friend, and as she said, giving him a piece 
of her mind into the bargain ; which was no other than a 
very free expression of her anger with regard to his father. 

Dalton sat at his lathe, ruminating with bitterness on his 
neighbour's unkindness, and thinking how he could be re- 
venged, when he suddenly started up, with a sort of fierce 
alertness in his manner ; for an idea had struck him. He 
took a chain and padlock which hung up in his kitchen, and 
walking deliberately to the draw-well, chained the handle to 
the wood-work and locked it, determining that from this 
time the Mays should not have a drop of water. This was 
an effectual way of annoying and inconveniencing them. He 
hung up the key against the kitchen chimney, and forbade 
his wife or daughter henceforth to lea\e the handle free. 
Neither of them objected nor remonstrated, for both had 
entered into the spirit of the quarrel, and thought that, at 
all events, it was but tit for tat, which was fair in any case. 

All the water which the Mays now needed had to be 
fetched, as in former years, from the way-side well ; but it 
now seemed much more inconvenient than it did formerly, 
for they had been so long accustomed to the advantage 
and convenience of the well. This was what Dalton wished ; 
he wished to annoy and inconvenience them as much as 
possible ; he rubbed his hands and chuckled at the trouble 
he could thus cause them. May, on his side, grew still more 
angry ; it vexed him to see the trouble his wife had to fetch 
water, still more when he saw her pay a poor neighbour for 
bringing it in larger quantities for her weekly washing. He 
went to the lawyer in the town, and told him to show no 
mercy to his neighbour. 

The feud between the Mays and the Daltons was talked 
of in the neighbourhood, and even in the town, especially on 
"Wednesday evenings at the Nag's Head, where Dalton got 
drunk. There was soon a host of partizans for either side, 
who, instead of trying to make peace between them, looked 
on much in the same spirit in which they would have watched 
a couple of boxers. Each encouraged his man, and thus 
made the contest more desperate. 

Summer came on : it was a summer in which there was 
no rain for months, and the scarcity of water was great ; 



NEIGHBOUES' QTJAEEELS. 325 

but in James Dalton' s well there was plenty. He used to 
stand with the key of his padlock in his hand, morning and 
evening, and let the women and children from the neigh- 
bouring cottages draw water and carry it away, past the very 
threshold of the Mays, and past the very shop where the old 
man and his son sat at their basket-making. George May 
had the mortification even of seeing some of the very people 
who had taken his part, and who had been most violent 
against Dalton, now receiving a favour from him. Dalton 
knew this, and it pleased him. Every body was welcome to 
the water of his well excepting the Mays : to them he would 
not give a drop. Somebody told him that one of the neigh- 
bours had carried her bucket of water into Mrs. May's 
kitchen, and made her welcome to it ; and from that day he 
would not let that woman have any more water : this proved 
how inveterate he was. He now had his revenge, and he 
fancied that he was the happier for it. 

There were plenty of people to carry tales between the 
two families ; and in this way the one heard what the other 
said, — but mostly with exaggeration. Susan heard that 
Eobert May did not grieve over the quarrel between them ; 
and she was told of many things he had said, which wounded 
her no little. She looked gayer than common whenever she 
passed the shop where he was at work, and determined to 
let him see before long some new lover. Every body who 
came to the Daltons passed the Mays' door ; so that Susan 
had a good chance of annoying Eobert in this way, if he 
cared at all for her, as, in the bottom of her heart, she be- 
lieved he did, 

One day Mr. Trimmings walked up to Wood-Nook about 
a new kind of button that he wanted to introduce. He was 
a dashing young man, a master-tailor, who had served his 
apprenticeship in London, and who had a great opinion of 
himself. He dressed well, and considered himself hand- 
some ; and had long been an admirer of Susan, though she 
hitherto had given him no encouragement. He was greatly 
disliked and ridiculed by Eobert May, who always called 
him Mister Snipps. He chanced to come up about the new 
button at a moment when Susan was very angry with 
Eobert, and, quick as lightning, she determined to favour 
him to spite the old lover. 



326 the wood-nook wells ; or, 

Dalton, who was inclined to think well of any body who 
purchased button-moulds, received the young tailor very 
kindly, and, almost as quickly as his daughter, determined 
that he should be her husband. It was necessary for Mr. 
Trimmings to wait and see the button-moulds turned. 
Dalton took great pains with them, and then proposed that 
his daughter should cover them with silk thread, according 
to Mr. Trimmings' idea. Trimmings stayed tea ; Susan 
cheerfully commenced her work, and the result was all that 
was desired. 

Things turned out according to Dalton's wishes. The 
tailor came again and again, and Susan was constantly em- 
ployed on these new fashionable buttons, which took amaz- 
ingly. Trimmings fancied himself in love, and only one 
thing prevented him making immediate proposals. His bro- 
ther was clerk to the lawyer, who was well acquainted with 
the state of Dalton's affairs, and from him he learned that 
the little property was heavily mortgaged. Desperately in 
love as he was; therefore, he paused before he committed 
himself, for his intention was in any case to marry a girl 
with money. Susan, who in truth did not care the value of 
a button-mould for Trimmings, gave him, nevertheless, great 
encouragement. She did this to annoy Robert May, who 
might, she thought, have set things right between the two 
families if he would ; for she was beginning to be tired of 
the feud, and to wish heartily for the pleasant old times 
when she and Robert were good friends. 

Robert had tried to set things right, as far as his father 
was concerned ; but he could do nothing. The son's inter- 
ference only made the father more obstinate ; he swore that 
his son should never marry Dalton's daughter. The conti- 
nued hot weather, the scarcity of water, and the locked-up 
well, increased his rancour. "No," he said, "he would 
never forgive Dalton ; the law should take its way, and if it 
took their last shilling he did not mind." This was the 
mood of the father ; and when Robert saw old Dalton pour- 
ing, as if in wanton waste, whole bucketfuls of water at the 
tree roots, and dashing it about in front of his shop, as he 
said, to cool the air ; but still more, when he saw the smart 
young tailor, the identical Mr. Snipps, going up to Dal- 
ton's two or three evenings a week, he became almost as 



neighbours' qttabrels. 327 

angry as his father, only that his anger showed itself in 
another way. He grew very silent and gloomy ; he thought 
he should set off somewhere ; he would leave the country as 
his brother had done ; he would enlist for a soldier, or go to 
sea. The only comfort he had at this time was little Lucy. 
He fetched water often in the evening to save his mother 
the trouble, and the child went with him ; and with her he 
prattled and talked, though he was silent to everybody else. 
The heat of the summer was intense ; it was a very un- 
healthy time. Eever broke out in the town, and the doctors 
said it was owing to the long drought. In the midst of this 
the child was suddenly taken ill. It was the fever that she 
had. The next day she was delirious, and the doctor gave 
but little hope of her recovery. So complete was the 
estrangement between the two families, that the tidings of 
poor little Lucy's grievous sickness came only indirectly to 
the Haltons. " Poor Robert ! what will he do ?" thought 
Susan, for she knew how dearly he loved the child. She was 
ready to offer help and sympathy, but she knew that her 
father would not permit it, neither did she know whether it 
would be acceptable to the Mays. 

Somebody said that evening, in Dalton's kitchen, that 
Mrs. May was crying, because they did not expect little 
Lucy would recover. " Then let her die !" said Dalton, in 
a hard, unfeeling tone. It seemed almost a satisfaction to 
him that his neighbours were in trouble. Old May was the 
only one of his household who went to bed that night, and 
he, too, was anxious and unhappy. " You'll let me know," 
said he, as he went upstairs, " if I can be of any use, or if 
the poor little wench is worse." 

The fever was now spent, and she lay on her little bed in 
that state of passive exhaustion which is more like death 
than life. Her lips were still parched, and it was stiflingly 
hot in her little chamber beneath the thatch ; and although 
she was too weak to speak, the occasional movement of the 
clammy lips indicated thirst. Eobert, who, through the 
whole of this child's illness, had shown the tenderness of a 
woman, sat by her bed, with his coat and waistcoat off, fan- 
ning her, with a fan which he had made from a folded sheet 
of writing-paper. In the dusk of that short summer night, 
the grandmother, who had just dropped off in a doze, waa 



328 THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OE, 

suddenly awoke by Eobert, who asked her to take his place. 
The child, he said, had opened her eyes and looked at him ; 
her lips had moved, as if asking for water. The water in the 
house was hot and unrefreshing ; he would now fetch some 
that was cool, that it might be agreeable and refreshing to 
her, at a moment when he hoped a favourable change was 
taking place. 

The grandmother seated herself by the bed, and Eobert 
darted from the house with the empty pitcher, which, as it 
was now night, he resolved to fill from their neighbour's 
well. True, the handle was secured, but he felt nerved with 
strength sufficient to break an iron chain. The chain, how- 
ever, was not easily broken. He wrenched at it with all his 
might ; and this made so much noise, that Dalton, who slept 
but lightly, and whose chamber window faced the well, was 
awoke. He started up, flung open the window, and looking 
upon this as an act oi defiance and an attempt to gain pos- 
session of the well, he uttered the most violent threats and 
imprecations ; and as this happened to be a Wednesday 
night, when he was inflamed by liquor, he would readily 
have proceeded to the violence which he threatened. Eobert, 
who, if he could have released the handle, would have drawn 
the water in defiance of him, now merely thought that he 
was losing time, and might lose still more if he encountered 
bodily his angry neighbour, merely replied by a muttered 
curse, and then rushed away with a frenzied feeling of 
mingled rage and anxiety past his own door, and down the 
high road to the way-side well, where he knew the water to 
be plentiful and free. How he reached the spring, and how 
he returned with his dripping pitcher, he hardly knew ; he 
seemed to himself to fly, and yet the distance appeared un- 
usually long. 

"When he re-entered the house, the first sound he heard 
was his mother's steps crossing the floor above. They did 
not seem to him as hushed as his own had been in the pre- 
sence of the sick child ; and instantly the thought struck 
him that she was dead — that his drop of water was come 
too late ! 

Before he could ascend the stairs, he asked in a low husky 
voice, which was startlingly audible through the silence, 
" How is she ?" At the sound of this sad foreboding voice, 



neighbours' quarrels. 329 

the woman's feelings burst forth, and she answered with a 
sob, that " the blessed baby would never want a drop of 
water more !" 

Had Eobert May seen old Dalton stand before him as the 
murderer of the child, he could not have felt much more 
intense hatred than he did at that moment. He set down 
the pitcher of now unavailing water, and throwing himself 
into a chair, clenched his fist, and abandoned himself to a 
miserable sense of sorrowful bereavement, and a craving for 
revenge, which he vowed to himself never to rest till he had 
appeased. 

The next morning it was noised abroad among the neigh- 
bours that little Lucy was dead, and that old Dalton had 
refused to Robert May a drop of water for her at the last 
moment. The neighbours cried " Shame !" and old Dalton, 
who now for the first time knew the true state of the case, 
tried to harden, his heart — for he was too proud and too 
obstinate to confess himself in the wrong, or to express con- 
trition ; and it only angered him to see his neighbours tak- 
ing part against him — those very neighbours who had been 
so much benefited by his well — and he vowed that he would 
do it again if it were to be done the next day ; and, more- 
over, from this time forth nobody need come to him for 
water, for that now they should have none ; and if they were 
so fond of the Mays, why, they should be treated like the 
Mays! 

Susan cried, and tried to mollify her father, but she only 
vexed him. 



CHAPTEE in. 



A EOLAND EOE THE OLIYEE. 



Susan was now very unhappy : she had loved little Lucy 
dearly ; she knew how much Eobert loved her, and how much 
he must now suffer : she deplored this family feud from the 
bottom of her heart, and the sight of the locked-up well 
handle seemed to her a bitter reproach. "What would she 
now not have given to have seen Eobert as formerly — to 
have been able to speak a kind word to him — to comfort 
him! But she saw him not; she felt ashamed of passing 
the Mays' door, and kept very much at home. 

On Sunday the child was to be buried. Formerly the 
Daltons would have been the first counselled with : to them 
the Mays would have looked for sympathy in their sorrow, 
and they, in fact, would have been the first to offer it. Susan 
would have helped to lay the dead child in its little coffin ; 
her father would have given his choicest flowers to scatter 
over it ; they would all have done numberless little neigh- 
bourly offices of kindness, but they had robbed themselves 
of that privilege. Now they could do none. Susan sat in 
her room and cried ; she envied herself the former happy 
hours she had spent with Eobert ; she fancied that she 
should never be happy again. She did not open her heart to 
her mother, because she so greatly favoured Mr. Trimmings ; 
and, moreover, overwhelmed her with a new and unex- 
pected grief, with which she herself had only just become 
acquainted — namely, that the mortgagee of their pro- 
perty was in difficulty ; that the interest had not been duly 
paid ; and that in all probability, if help did not come from 
one quarter or another, the mortgage would be foreclosed, 
and their patrimony go out of their hands, leaving them 
almost in beggary. She had no time to think about other 
people's sorrows ; she could not sympathise either with the 



EEIGHBOUES' QTJAEEELS. 331 

Mays or with her own daughter. What were the Mays' 
troubles to them ! Eight hundred pounds must be raised in 
one quarter or another ; and that was enough for her to think 
about ! 

Susan sympathised with her parents in their new trial : 
they talked over their troubles undisguisedly amongst them- 
selves ; the lawsuit which May had commenced was not yet 
ended, and that would involve them still more. Susan pro- 
posed to leave home for service ; but of that her parents 
would not hear. The parents looked to her marriage with 
Trimmings as the means by which their help was to come , 
but Susan's fidelity to Robert May was unshaken — nay, in- 
deed, her love for him in his present sorrow returned with 
increased force into her heart. How could she entertain 
her parents' views with regard to Trimmings? She was 
every way in great sorrow and perplexity. 

On Sunday morning it rained — the first rain for many 
months : the rain-drops poured down like visible blessings 
from heaven. Eobert sat in the closed shop among the 
osiers, and listened to the pouring rain. In the evening it 
was again fine, beautifully bright and calm ; and the boun- 
tiful rain- drops hung, like glittering dew, upon every parched 
leaf and flower. Eobert thought of the little parched mouth 
which had craved for water which came not, and he ground 
his teeth in bitter anguish. 

Six young girls, dressed in white, carried the little coffin ; 
and six others, in the same pure vesture, walked first, singing 
beautiful hymns in a low voice. This was the way in which 
the young and pure were ever borne to the grave in that 
simple country place. The little mourning company — the 
grandfather and grandmother, Eobert, and a few friendly 
neighbours — followed. 

The news of this simple funeral procession was brought 
to the Daltons by Mr. Trimmings, who walked up that 
evening, and who had met it just winding down the Wood- 
ISook lane to the high road. Trimmings was received by 
the old people with the greatest kindness. When tea was 
over, Dalton took him into the great evergreen arbour at 
the far end of the garden, where they were soon deeply en- 
gaged in conversation. The father made him the confidant 
of his troubles ; and Susan, wishing to be out of the way, 



332 THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OE, 

and wishing also for quietness, to think over what she had • 
best do in her difficult circumstances, put on her bonnet 
and shawl, and walked down into the silent meadows 
beyond. 

The white attired maidens chanted their holy hymns as 
they slowly preceded the little coffin along the shady road, 
and up the beautiful churchyard path, towards the little 
open grave in the pleasantest part of the churchyard, where 
these beloved remains were to find their last resting-place. 

The church chimes played a low and holy tune ; and then, 
in the silence that succeeded, the deep quiet voice of the 
clergyman uttered the solemn and consolatory words of the 
funeral service. There was something holy in the hour and 
the scene. A calm like that of heaven seemed to steal over 
the perturbed breast of Robert, and, for the first time for 
many days, he felt as if he could freely and entirely forgive. 
He thought of Susan and the old times ; he longed to talk 
with her of the little child now sleeping lowly at his feet. 
He longed to take the old man by the hand, and to say, let 
us all be friends : it seemed possible to him, and he believed 
that his parents must feel as he did. " Our Father in hea- 
ven," sighed he, " forgive us our trespasses as we forgive 
those who trespass against us !" He now understood the 
words — he seemed never to have understood them before — 
and he wept. 

Instead of returning home at once with the little funeral 
company, Eobert strolled down by himself to the willow- 
holts, and thence forward into the refreshed meadows, and 
so homewards, in the pleasant dusk, by the very walk which 
Susan had taken, and which would lead him past the Dal- 
tons' cottage, and which he would thus pass for the first 
time since the quarrel ; because, on account of its bringing 
him so near to their house, he had of late avoided this 
pleasant walk. 

But before the hour of dusk we must return to Susan, in 
these very fields, and to Trimmings, sitting with her father 
in the great old arbour. 

Trimmings, as I said,, had already gained some intelli- 
gence from his brother, the lawyer's clerk, of the encum- 
brance on Dalton's little property ; and now the painful 
avowal which the poor man had compelled himself to make, 



ItEIGHBOTTES QTJAEEELS. 

accompanied by the request that his young friend would, if 
possible, help him out of his dificulties, or at least devise 
some means of doing so, showed him clearly enough that 
matters were much worse than he imagined. 

Trimmings was neither a generous man nor a man of prin- 
ciple ; he could have helped Dalton out of his difficulties if 
he had liked, for he had lately received a legacy from 
an uncle of more than that amount. He said he could do so, 
and his words filled poor Dalton' s heart with joy: but he 
made no promise that he would. Dalton thought not that 
any promise was needed ; he thought of nothing but that 
Trimmings would become his son-in-law, and clear off the 
mortgage, and thus all be right. 

Trimmings was not, as I said, a generous man ; nor had he, 
certainly, any real love for Susan. And though he thought 
it might be a good investment for his money, and though he 
had already pictured to himself a smart little country-box of 
his own, in the place of the old button-mould turner's cot- 
tage, yet he wavered in his mind as to the mistress of it ; 
whether she should be Susan Dalton, the daughter of an 
almost bankrupt father, or Lydia Oglethorpe, the daughter 
of a jolly landlady of a neighbouring town, who had plenty 
of money, and to whom he would be a welcome lover. 

Whilst old Dalton was pouring out his troubles confiden- 
tially, and, as he hoped, into the ears of one who was willing 
to help him, Trimmings was mentally deliberating as above. 
Whatever conclusion he came to, the old man, with great 
satisfaction, saw him, as soon as their conversation was over, 
turn down the meadow-path which his daughter had taken 
only half an hour before. 

Trimmings found Susan seated at the foot of a tree, and 
he seated himself very familiarly beside her. She knew that 
her father had made him the confidant of his troubles, and 
he now told her that he had long been aware of them. Erom 
this Susan drew an inference favourable to him ;— he must, 
then, have been disinterested in his attentions to her. She 
ventured to ask him if he would aid her father ; she looked 
imploringly into his face, — for her father's sake she did so. 
There was something in her look at that moment which 
caused Trimmings to use a freedom he had never done be- 
fore ; he threw his arm round her waist, drew her hastily 



834 THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OR, 

towards himself, and kissed her, saying that for her sake he 
would do anything. 

At that moment Robert May passed; he had walked 
slowly up the meadows, with a sweet wish growing in his 
heart that he might meet his Susan — that they might be 
reconciled, and through their reconciliation that the family 
feud might be healed. 

Now, however, when he saw Susan sitting by the side of 
his rival, and witnessed the apparently lover-like terms of 
their intercourse, he felt like one who had suddenly received 
a blow from the hand of a friend. Susan, who was so modest 
and coy, and from whom, even in their most intimate days, 
he had found it almost impossible to steal a kiss, now per- 
mitted the very man who had been their laughing-stock to 
use the familiarity of a deserving lover ! He felt almost 
mad. Jealousy took possession of his heart, and with it an 
instantaneous revulsion of feeling : he now thirsted for 
revenge. 

Susan, who, as Robert had believed, was the most modest 
of girls, felt no less annoyed than himself at the freedom of 
Trimmings ; whilst the fact of its having been witnessed by 
Robert completely stunned and bewildered her. 

" Oh, Mr. Trimmings, what have you done I" exclaimed 
she, starting to her feet and bursting into tears. Robert 
neither saw nor imagined her dismay ; and Trimmings was 
again at her side, praising her beauty, and promising to do 
much for her sake : he laughed, and was apparently in high 
spirits. 

She was too unhappy to attend either to his mirth or his 
promises. They reached home : the old people received him 
with more than their usual cordiality, and did not notice the 
disturbed countenance of their daughter. 

One morning soon after the above occurrence the Daltons 
were surprised by seeing the commencement of preparations 
for the sinking of a well at the Mays. Robert gave direc- 
tions, and even worked himself. Rain had now set in after 
the long drought ; but that did not impede the work, for a 
very active spirit governed it. The shaft grew deeper and 
deeper. Never was a well sunk in so short a time. Before 
autumn it was completed, and again the weather was dry. 

The first appearance of this dry weather occasioned con- 



ITEIGHBOUKS' QTTAEBELS. 335 

sternation to the Daltons ; their well was becoming dry ; 
the water was obtained with difficulty, and was no longer of 
the fine quality which it had been. It was very evident now 
what was the meaning of that great activity. Eobert May 
knew that a well on his father's premises (which were below 
the Daltons') would completely drain theirs ; and thus the 
tables, as regarded the supply of water, would be turned. 
All his calculations were right. The Daltons suffered 
greatly, both from the decreased supply, and from appre- 
hensions for the future. 

Susan, whose health began to suffer, not only from do- 
mestic anxiety, but from her own secret sorrow as regarded 
Eobert May, left home on a visit to an aunt in a distant 
town. She now believed, from the unabated animosity 
evinced by Eobert towards her family, that he had ceased to 
have any regard for her ; and she believed, therefore, that 
her duty was to root him from her heart. But this was not 
an easy matter, as she soon found. 

The aunt with whom Susan took up her abode was a 
widow, a poor industrious woman, who went out to work in 
wealthy houses for eighteen-pence a day. She had two little 
meanly-furnished rooms, and her life was a hard one. It 
was a poor change for Susan, but she was obstinate in re- 
maining with her. She said that she would take in plain 
sewing, and maintain herself ; and her aunt, who had a kind 
heart, obtained this for her from the houses where she 
worked. Under ordinary circumstances her parents would 
not have parted with her, but the increasing difficulties at 
home compelled them to consent ; besides which, they hoped 
that the wealthy lover might be urged to more prompt mea- 
sures by this absence. 

The lawsuit came to an end, and, of course, it was decided 
against Dalton. He had not only damages to pay, but the 
two lawyers' bills ; these and the foreclosed mortgage would 
complete his ruin. He turned to Trimmings for help ; but 
Trimmings was shy of advancing money. The effect of these 
adverse circumstances on his mind was very melancholy : he 
drank more and more, and worked not at all. 

The news got abroad that he would soon be broken up, 
and his little place sold. It was Trimmings who first spread 
the report ; and he said, unreservedly, that it would come 
into his hands. 



83G THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OB, 

" To be sure it will," said Dalton, when half-drunk, to 
his companions at the Nag's Head." " To whom else should 
it come ? for he is going to marry my Susan." 

In this way he deceived himself; and yet it perplexed and 
troubled him no little that Trimmings would not take up 
the mortgage, nor yet even advance a loan of money. And 
thus the winter went on. 

One day, during the following spring, Susan received a 
melancholy letter from her mother. It was very short, for 
her mother was no scholar, and seldom put pen to paper ; 
but, short as it was, it conveyed much. It told her that her 
father was sadly down in spirits ; that one of the cows had 
died in calving ; that the lawyers threatened to take posses- 
sion of everything, and that there was.no prospect for their 
old age but the workhouse ; and, lastly, came her troubles 
about Trimmings : what did he mean ? and why did not 
he and Susan get married ? The letter was complaining and 
unhappy : Susan sat and cried over it. 

As she thus sat, she was startled by a visit from Mr. 
Trimmings, who naturally inquired the cause of her grief. 
She could not let him see the letter, but she told him the 
contents as far as related to the troubles of her parents, 
weeping bitterly the while. 

The sight of her tears seemed to affect him, and his man- 
ner was that of a sympathising friend. 

"And will you not do something to save my father?" 
asked she ; " for he looks to you for help." 

He took out a pocket-book containing much money : he 
opened it, and showed her the contents, telling her that all 
this should be paid to free her father from his present credi- 
tors ; that, in fact, he was on his way to the lawyer's about 
it, but that he could not resist the temptation of first see- 
ing her. 

Susan wa3 very grateful to him : she was ready to sacrifice 
the happiness of her life, and give her hand the next day, if 
it were asked, to the generous friend who would thus save 
her father from ruin. 

There was no occasion for gratitude, however, for there 
was a degrading and insulting condition attached to this 
proffered help, which made it impossible. She no longer 
wept ; she stood before him with the crimson of indignant 
shame on her cheek, and refused his aid in the name of her 



KEIGHBOTTKS' QTTATtRELS. 337 

poor but insulted parents. Mr. Trimmings was very cool : he 
said that she was at liberty to please herself, and he also was 
at liberty to do the same ; that he should shortly be married 
to Miss Oglethorpe, who had a good fortune ; and that as 
to the little place at Wood-Nook, said he, putting the money 
into his pocket again, he did not trouble himself about 
that ; it would be up for sale shortly, and then, when the 
old folks had no better home than the workhouse, Susan 
might, perhaps, be sorry that she had lost a friend who was 
willing to have helped for her sake, but who might now be 
a worse enemy than even Robert May ! 

" What a wicked world this is !" said Susan many a time, 
as she sat over her needle-work. The thoughts of her pa- 
rents' distress and disappointment were never absent from 
her mind. She prayed to God earnestly that he would not 
desert them ; but from what quarter help was to come she 
knew not. 

Again it was the commencement of summer, and a long 
dry spring and unusually hot weather left, as had been anti- 
cipated, the old well completely dry. The tables were 
turned, indeed. Water was not, however, generally scanty ; 
it only failed at the Daltons' ; it was like the rest of their 
fortunes, the poor broken-spirited man said. Their sole re- 
maining cow and the two heifers, which had been the mis- 
chievous calves of the former spring, came up to the paling 
behind the well, and lowed mournfully for water. The 
trough that used to be always full to overflowing, was now 
empty. It was very galling to poor Dalton to go down for 
water to the wayside-spring, for he had to fetch it past the 
very shop-door where his enemy sat at work. Such a humi- 
liation as this had been spared to them. The handle of the 
new well was not secured, but he never thought of asking a 
drop from them. He rose early in the morning, and fetched 
it from the distant spring — unseen, as he hoped, by the 
Mays ; but the water thus fetched was bitter as the water 
of Marah. 

. Many of the neighbours said that it was only tit for tat, and 
that it was his turn now to suffer want and inconvenience ; 
others, however, advised him to sink his well a few yards 
lower, as by this means he would again have the advantage. 
Perhaps he might have done so, and thus have prolonged thfl 

z 



838 the wood-js t ook: wells. 

quarrel by retaliation, but that lie had no money to spend. 
Poor Mrs. Dalton, who bitterly felt the want of a plentiful 
supply of water, reproached her husband now for his tormer 
hardness towards his neighbour ; and this led to many a 
quarrel between them, which only added to their unhap- 
piness. 

The innocent cattle suffered greatly ; their piteous lowing 
was very distressing to Mrs. May. " Do let us return good 
for evil," said she to her husband; "let us give those poor 
dumb creatures a drop of water ; why should they suffer ?" 

" If the old fellow were dying at my feet, and a drop of 
water would save him, he should not have it from my well !" 
said old May ; and then, in imitation of his neighbour dur- 
ing the former summer, he went out and drew buckets of 
water, which he dashed about in the front of his shop and 
upon the road, that his neighbour might see it when he 
passed, and might know that now it was his turn to revel in 
plentjr, while he suffered want. 

But Dalton saw it not. Somebody brought him word 
that Trimmings was married to the landlady's daughter ; 
and the post brought him a letter from his lawyer, an- 
nouncing that his property at Wood-Nook must forthwith 
be sold, to cover the demand against him, by order of the 
mortgagee. 

These were severe blows ; and that same night he had a 
paralytic stroke, which laid him helpless on his bed, and 
partially deprived him of the use of his limbs. 

None of these multiplied troubles were known, within 
the first twelve hours, to any one excepting the doctor. It 
was therefore not compassion which operated upon Robert 
May's mind, aiid caused him, as soon as it was dark, to fill 
the great stone trough at the back of the Daltons' now use- 
less well ; and to resolve that, from henceforth, he would 
endeavour to be a peace-maker between the two families. 

The hard words which his father had spoken the day be- 
fore — " If the old man were dying at my feet, and a drop of 
water would save him, he should not have it from my well !" 
— seemed to unmask at once all the fiend-like cruelty of the 
spirit which had been influencing them so long. 



CHAPTER V. 



STEIKING A BALANCE. 



Eobebt had not been ill taught in his youth ; he remem- 
bered, as a boy, that he had been taught by his father the 
beautiful and tender precepts of Christianity — " If thy enemy 
hunger, give him to eat ; if he thirst, give him to drink." 
" That thou shalt forgive thy brother, not seven times only, 
but seventy times seven." His father then would have 
endeavoured to act up to this. precept ; now, how different! 
He was no longer a Christian ; neither had he himself been 
one of late, for he had violated the very essence of Chris- 
tianity, in so far as doing to others as he would they should 
do to him — in so far as returning good for evil, and loving 
his neighbour as himself, went. 

Eobert felt humbled and reproved \ and again, in the true 
spirit of sincere conviction, he repeated the words — " Father, 
forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass 
against us." 

That night, therefore, as soon as it was dark, he filled his 
neighbour's trough with water, and slept more peacefully 
than he had done for many months. 

On the morrow, the post, that had brought on the preced- 
ing day such sorrowful tidings to poor Dalton, brought a 
letter containing yqtj unexpected news for Eobert May. 
His brother, who had been absent so many years, and from 
whom they had received no intelligence whatever, had died 
in Australia, where he had been pursuing a successful career 
as a wool farmer. He had left all to his brother Eobert ; 
and this sum, amounting to upwards of twelve hundred 
pounds, was now conveyed over to him by his brother's 
executor, a respectable merchant of Melbourne. 

How strange, how sorrowful, yet, in one sense at least, 
how satisfactory were these tidings ! The son and brother 
had been leading an industrious and respectable life, and in 
his far-distant home, and amid his many years' silence, had 



340 THE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OK, 

not forgotten them. " Oh, thank G-od that he was no re- 
probate, poor lad!" exclaimed Mrs. May, with her eyes 
brimming with tears. " I said that he never would take to 
evil ways — I knew he would not ! He was always a good 
lad, and I knew he would turn out a credit to us !" And 
then the poor woman, forgetting all her anxieties, and her 
so many years' reproaches for what she then called his 
" undutiful neglect of them," could not say enough in his 
praise. And she was sincere ; she had been unjust to him 
in her reproaches, and she now would have given half her 
remaining life to have expressed to him one-tenth of the 
love that had always been in her heart for him. 

The news of Robert May's good fortune spread through 
all the neighbourhood. "What a contrast there was between 
the condition of the Mays and the Daltons ! Yet from that 
first night when the water-trough behind the Daltons' well 
was filled, it never was again empty. 

Susan did not return home even to wait upon her father : 
her mother said she was not wanted, and the few shillings 
she was occasionally able to send to her parents were more 
useful even than her services. 

It was now the middle of June, and bills were posted up 
announcing that on the 23d of the same month the desirable 
freehold property of James Dalton, with an excellent milch 
cow and two heifers, dwelling-house and shop, household 
furniture and stock-in-trade, would be sold by auction. 
Every body said that Trimmings was the man to buy. He 
had made up his mind to do so ; he meant to have a cheap 
penny-worth ; he boasted of it, — and this was galling indeed 
to poor Dalton. 

The downfall of the Daltons was complete. It was now 
past the middle of June. The poor man lay helpless on his 
bed ; and if this crowning misfortune were not his death, a 
melancholy old age was before him. ~No prospect could well 
be more cheerless. Although his limbs were powerless, his 
mind was unimpaired : he lay on his bed and reviewed the 
past. He was now humbled and penitent ; and the circum- 
stance of the now filled water-trough, which could only be 
supplied by his neighbour, seemed to heap coals of fire on 
his head. They, or some of them, were returning good for 
evil; and he felt now how noble and how gracious a thing 



neighbours' quarrels. 341 

this is, and his hard heart was softened. Affliction, also, is 
an opener of blinded eyes : we see under its influence things 
so diiferently to what we did in our prosperity. This was 
the case with old Dalton. He sent for the clergyman, a 
good man, who had already tried, but in vain, to prevent the 
quarrel from going so far between the two old neighbours. 
The sick man now needed his consolation, and he asked it 
with tears. 

Nobody told poor Dalton on what day his property was to 
be sold, for they feared that it would cause another stroke, 
or perhaps his death. 

The desirableness of the Wood-Nook property caused 
there to be many bidders. Trimmings was soon outbid, and 
finally it was knocked down to a lawyer, who had been em- 
ployed to purchase it for a client. Nobody knew who the 
purchaser really was. Young May worked at his basket- 
making all the day, and his father attended the sale, for ho 
was curious to know what would be the fate of his neigh- 
bour's land. 

When his father returned, and told him that a certain 
lawyer had bought it, Robert started up, and, with a coun- 
tenance beaming with joy, exclaimed — " Thank Heaven, 
then it is mine ! Thank Heaven, that my poor brother's 
money will be put out to such good interest ! Now, father, 
we will have no more hatred, no more strife of bad neigh- 
bourhood amongst us ! Now we will return good for evil ! 
Now we will do to others as we would they should do to us !" 

A messenger from the lawyer whom Robert had employed 
brought him word at that moment that the purchase had 
been made according to his wishes. 

" Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Robert; " then we will do 
what is right." 

" What do you mean to do ?" asked his father, eagerly ; 
and stopping him as he seemed ready to rush out of the 
shop. " Surely you don't mean to let old Dalton remain 
in the place, after the way he has behaved to us ? You'll 
never be such a fool, Robert !" 

" Yes I shall," said Robert. " Old Dalton shall stop if he 
likes, and we'll be good neighbours to him : and we'll have 
good neighbourhood amongst us, and no more quarrelling 
about water. There shall be one well, common to both 
houses." 



342 HIE WOOD-NOOK WELLS ; OK, 

" It shall not be my well, then, Bobert," said the father, 
angrily. " With my money that well was sunk, and he shall 
never have a drop of water from it I" 

" Then it shall be his well, or rather my well," said Eobert, 
good-naturedly. " I'll sink my well deep enough for both 
houses. I love that old well, and that shall be the only well 
at Wood-Nook!" 

" Hang the wells !" exclaimed the old man ; but not as 
angrily as before. 

Bobert had not crossed Mr. Dalton' s threshold for up- 
wards of twelve months, but he now stood upon the house 
floor, and in front of the bed, which, for convenience sake, 
had been brought down stairs, and on which lay the para- 
lytic man. His first idea had been to use no ceremony, but 
to speak out the good news and his kind intentions at once ; 
but when he saw Dalton' s altered countenance, he was 
silenced: his sudden unceremonious entrance had almost 
been too much for him. Bobert, deeply affected, took his 
thin powerless hand, and looked compassionately on him, 
without speaking. Poor Dalton, who imagined instantly 
that he was come to triumph over him with news of the 
sale, looked piteously into his face, without the power of 
uttering a word. Mrs. Dalton heard some one enter, and, 
supposing it the clergyman, came down stairs in a clean 
apron. She thought that he was come with news of the 
sale, and she trembled. 

Her surprise at the sight of Bobert was great : she felt 
instantly angry, for she knew not what his visit could mean. 
" I think you might have stayed away," said she : " for you 
might have known that James is in no state to see com- 
pany, — and least of all one of your family." 

Bobert drew her aside, and told her that he was the pur- 
chaser, and of his kind intentions towards them. Mrs. 
Dalton wept. 

Her husband, who watched eagerly what was going on, 
and catching the word " sale," demanded, in his poor, almost 
inarticulate voice, " who had bought the place, and when the 
furniture would be sold, and when they must leave ?" 

" Oh, James," said his wife ; " hear what Bobert has to 
say ! Speak, Bobert," said she, addressing the young man ; 
" speak slowly, and he'll understand every word. Thank 
Heaven ! his mind is sound enough ; and may Grod Almighty 



NEIGHBOUES' QUARRELS. 343 

"bless you, for being a friend to those who behaved so badly 
to you, and for thus returning good for evil !" 



Wood-]N"ook is again a happy place, where nothing but 
good neighbourhood prevails. The button-mould turner's 
cottage is the only one which has been altered. The shop, 
the lathe, and the great stock of button-moulds, are now all 
gone. Instead of the shop is a pretty parlour, with papered 
walls, and white dimity curtains to a large cheerful window, 
which has been exchanged for the old open shop window 
with the turn-down shutter, and which commands one of 
the loveliest views in the neighbourhood. In this room 
stands a white bed ; and here the paralytic but cheerful old 
man passes his time. In summer, however, when the wea- 
ther is warm, he is wheeled in his chair into the sunny gar- 
den, where he sits quietly near the bees, and where his old 
friend, Greorge May, has a great knack of visiting him. 

Robert and Susan May occupy the house ; and it is a 
happier and a brighter home than it ever was in the Daltons' 
best days. There were two children playing about the door 
when I was last there : one was a little Lucy. 

The old well, instead of being sunk deeper, has been filled 
up. Robert had this done before his first child could walk ; 
and upon the place where it stood — the cause of so much 
animosity and unhappiness — he has built a little summer- 
house ; and there, when the weather is cold or the garden 
damp, the two old neighbours may be seen smoking together 
their pipes ; and there, as poor James Dalton never per- 
fectly recovered the use of his speech, his neighbour reads 
the paper to him once a week, and retails to him the Wed- 
nesday's news on his return from market. 

Such is the history of the Two Wells of "Wood-Nook. 



LEAVES FROM THE DIARY 



POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 



Dec. 18th. — These holidays are very welcome to me. Mind 
as well as body needs refreshment. The frost is still severe, 
but the sun shone this morning with the splendour of a 
May-day, and the slight covering of snow, which in these 
country-places does not become sullied as in towns, gave 
unusual beauty to the whole landscape. The peculiar cha- 
racter of trees is much more perceptible in winter than in 
summer, when the tracery of their branches is hidden by the 
leaves. I was struck by this to-day as I walked down the 
lane adjoining the grounds of the Hall. The trees here are 
of great size : the oak, the maple, the horse and Spanish 
chesnuts, the birch, the ash, and even elm, grow finely 
grouped together in a comparatively small space. Here and 
there a black evergreen, the Scotch and "Weymouth pine, 
add still greater diversity. Bare trees, shooting up and 
spreading out their branches into the keen bracing air, have 
always had to my fancy a fine effect. They seem hard and 
gray, as if made of iron : each has its own peculiar and cha- 
racteristic twist and turn and angle ; each individual twig 
of the same tree differs from the rest —yet all have the same 
general character ; and that in all lands, and from all time 
unchanged ! This is wonderful ! God's works are wonder- 
ful as they are manifold. 



DIAET OP A POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 345 

Instead of pursuing the lane forward to the meadows, I 
crossed the stile to the left, and went down to the old ponds 
below the Hall, which being now hardly frozen over are a 
great attraction to the boys. If I had wanted my whole 
school, I should have found them assembled here, with red 
and white comforters round their necks, and worsted gloves 
on. I have an instinctive knowledge of, as well as liking 
for, boys. I know all in the village, even the Sunday scholars. 
I soon discovered, therefore, that among the sliders was one 
who was a stranger. He might be ten or twelve ; looked 
poor, and was scantily clothed, and neither had he any skill 
on the ice. He kept near the edge, apart from the others, 
and was making little essays with more perseverance than 
success. I watched him for some time. Among the sliders 
yonder were boys not half his age, who slid fearlessly twenty 
or thirty yards at once. I thought him one of those mal- 
adroit beings who do everything in a clumsy, left-handed 
way, and felt compassion for him. To such, whether boys 
or men, the easiest things are hard ; good intention avails 
little — their work is without completeness ; they blunder 
rather than go through life ; their very existence seems 
a blunder. While I stood thus thinking, he fell; it was 
an awkward fall, and I feared he was hurt. I stepped 
upon the ice, therefore, to help him up, but he sprang nimbly 
to his feet, and received my expressions of pity with a face 
crimson with mortification or anger. 

" I am not hurt," said he, with almost a defiant air. 

The lad was handsome at that moment, and I seemed to 
recognize his countenance ; I thought he was one of the 
"Welds of Kirkton, and said so. " Kirkton," said he, 
" where's that ?" 

" Tou must know Kirkton !" said I. " The next village.*' 

" Noj" returned he ; "I never was at Kirkton." 

This was very strange. " If you don't know Kirkton, 5 " 
said I, " then where do you come from ?" 

"Manchester!" replied he. 

Manchester ! that was upwards of a hundred miles off. 
I understood now why he could not slide. He had lived all 
his days in a close town where there was no ice to slide on. 

" And what brought you from Manchester to this country 
place ?" I asked. " Have you friends here ?" 



346 LEAVES EKOM THE DIABY OE 

" I don't think I have," was his somewhat singular reply. 

" Did you expect to find friends here ?" 

" I don't know," said he, shortly. 

I was at once convinced that he had something to conceal, 
and suspicions, unfavourable to him, entered my mind. 
Perhaps he was a thief. 

"How came you to leave your friends in Manchester ?" 
I asked. 

" I had business here," said he, in the cool tone of one who 
seems determined to be incommunicative. My suspicions 
were the more confirmed. I looked keenly at the boy, and 
he met my glance with that proud defiant look which I had 
before noticed, and which gave to the whole countenance a 
singularly striking expression. 

" Business here, have you !" remarked I, not without a 
feeling of the absurd pretension of the boy, and yet as if 
not wishing to pry into his concerns ; " and you are dis- 
appointed in not finding some acquaintance here — that's it, 
is it not?" 

"I never said anything about acquaintance," said he ; 
" I have no acquaintance." 

"But friends, then," said I, thinking that he merely 
quibbled about the word. 

" I don't know," returned he, shortly, and, stepping from 
the ice to the bank, seemed disposed to leave both me and 
the water-side. But I was not going to let him so escape. I 
followed him, and we walked together along the field towards 
the lane. By dint of close enquiry I found he had been but 
a few days in the village ; that he had walked most of the 
way from Manchester, getting only occasional lifts in carts 
or wagons on the road. He did not beg, he said, proudly ; 
he should never beg. He wanted to get work in the 
village. He lodged at "Widow Marshall's, and she had promised 
to get him some winding to do. 

The boy is a riddle to me. I shall make enquiries from 
"Widow Marshall respecting him. 

19th. — "Went down to "Widow Marshall's this morning ; 
found her busy in her frame as usual ; she is an industrious 
woman. Fell into talk with her about old times ; when she 
mentioned that this was her birthday. She is sixty-five, — 
the age of my mother the day she died. The poor cannotkeep 



A POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 347 

birthdays, nor do they often receive birthday presents ; but 
for my beloved parent's sake I sent her a hundred- weight of 
coals, a loaf of bread, two ounces of tea, and half a pound of 
sugar. This little act made me happier than if I had kept 
my own birthday twice over. 

"Widow Marshall could not tell me much about the strange 
boy. She takes in well-recommended travellers to lodge in 
her house, and somebody, she imagines, must have sent the 
boy to her, but she cannot make out who, for he seems of a 
very reserved disposition. She had nothing to say against 
him, however ; and she is a woman with a keen insight into 
character, and not disposed to think too well of the class of 
people she had to deal ^vith. He had thirteenpence-half- 
penny in his pocket when he came to her. He told her that 
he wanted to get work; but she could not imagine what could 
make him leave a thriving place like Manchester, where 
everybody had plenty to do, for a poor out-of-the-way place 
like Moreton, unless it was that he was a lad of roving 
disposition, and no place came amiss to him. This is likely 
enough to be the case. She said she had got some winding 
for him to do this morning ; but he had now set on for Kirk- 
ton, and why he would go there she could not tell. She 
said he came back last night full of Kirkton and the old 
Hall there ; and when she told him that it belonged to 
Squire Jellico, as well as Moreton Hall, though he did not 
live there any more than at Moreton, and that it was an 
old tumble-down place, he seemed quite excited about it, 
and said he should set off and have a look at it. So off he 
went this morning, without a bit of breakfast, and she 
couldn't think what he could be after. Begging it couldn't 
be, nor picking and stealing, for there was nothing to be got 
in a poor place like Kirkton. However, when he came 
back there was the winding for him to do, if he liked, and if 
not, he must look out for other quarters, as he had come to 
the end of his money last Saturday night, and she couldn't 
afford to keep him for nothing. He was a queer sort of 
chap, she said ; there was something very deep about him — 
she couldn't make him out. Sometimes she thought he'd 
been used to bettermost sort of people, and then again he 
seemed almost soft. He was desperately taken with the ice, 
and yet he couldn't slide a bit ; — for her part she should 



348 LEAVES EEOM THE DIABY Of 

have thought Manchester lads must be used to ice. She 
shouldn't wonder but that he was going again to the ponds, 
and that going to Kirkton wa3 all a pretence. I walked 
down to the ponds on this suggestion of Mrs. Marshall's ; 
the boys of the village were sliding, but our stranger (Widow 
Marshall did not know his name further than it was Charley) 
was not there. 

The wind has changed to-day, and there is every ap- 
pearance of the frost going. It has lasted already fifteen 
days. I warned my boys to keep out of danger, and then 
walked on to Kirkton ; but I saw nothing of the strange 
boy. I did not make inquiries from the old woman at the 
Hall, as the dog there is very fierce, and I did not think it 
likely the boy would venture in. 

Called on my friend Mr. Cramer, and, though it was early 
in the afternoon, drank a dish of tea with him, which he 
obligingly ordered on my account. Have not seen him since 
the death of Mr. Jellico's son, who was boarded with him. 
The poor child was just turned of ten when he died. He 
was a boy of but small capacity, though of most promising 
disposition, and his death seemed to have been a great trial 
to my friend. He had a fine salary with him, the effects of 
which are evident in his library. His collection of philo- 
logical works is now very valuable. He showed me a present 
he received from Squire Jellico — the Works of Jeremy Taylor, 
in eight volumes, finely printed, and bound in russia, and 
which were sent to him as a compliment after the boy's 
death. I grieve to hear that the unhappiness between the 
Squire and his lady still continues. A divorce is now spoken 
of, but I hope it will not proceed so far ; and yet no quarrels 
are so hard to make up as those between married people 
when they have once become public. There are fine points 
in the Squire's character, and many good things are told of 
his lady ; yet a fatal something, nobody rightly knows what, 
though there are many surmises, seems to have sundered 
them for ever. This led us to speak of an unhappy event 
which occurred just before I came to Moreton, and which 
was, in fact, the cause of my coming at all ; and, as I have 
not alluded to it hitherto in these pages, I may as well 
mention it now. 

My predecessor at Moreton Grammar-school was one 



A POOE SCHOOLMASTEE. 349 

Mr. Nathaniel Day ; lie came from somewhere in the north, 
and was, it was said, originally a Dissenting preacher. He 
was, however, only known at Moreton as a Churchman, and 
was a favourite of the Rector and Squire — it was the old 
Squire, then : he was therefore nominated to the Grammar- 
school, on which occasion the salary was raised from thirty 
to fifty pounds a year, and two additional rooms built to 
the school-house, which made it much more comfortable. 
He was no great hand at teaching, however, as the last 
generation, I think, proves ; but he cultivated flowers with 
much success, and played both on the violoncello and the 
harpsichord, and was consequently made church-organist, 
for he had a great turn for music. Not many years after 
he came to Moreton his wife died, leaving him one child — a 
daughter. As the father was so much favoured by the 
Squire, the little girl — Alice was her name — was taken 
great notice of by old Miss Gadsby, who lived at Kirkton 
Hall: for the old Squire married the elder Miss Gadsby, 
who with her sister was co-heirship of Kirkton, and who in- 
habited the Hall till the time of her death, some eight or 
nine years ago, when it came into the hands of the present 
Squire Jellico. "Well, little Alice Day, as I said, being 
motherless, was much noticed by old Miss Gadsby, and 
received through her means a -better education than was 
suited to her station ; and when she grew up to be about 
seventeen or eighteen was reckoned one of the greatest 
beauties in all the country. The old man, her father, was 
prodigiously proud of her, and when the young Squire, then 
about three or four and twenty, came home from college, he 
unfortunately set admiring eyes on her. He used to spend 
a deal of time at Kirkton ; but his father, who had become, 
as it were, stupid with free living, and the old lady, who was 
nearly blind, suspected nothing. It soon became the talk 
of both Kirkton and Moreton j and Mr. Day — poor man ! — 
who flattered himself that he should one of these davs see 
his daughter mistress of the Hall, shut his eyes willingly to 
all that went forward, and every evening after school hours 
went up to the Hall to play at cards with the old gentleman, 
and help the butler to get him to bed, for he was mostly 
drunk by that time. Prom one of these drunken slumbers 
he never woke ; and things now took such a turn witli poor 



850 LEAVES EROM THE DIARY OF 

Mr. Day as lie never looked for. He thought all impediment 
removed out of the way ; but others on which he had never 
calculated had arisen. Alice Day was the last woman young 
Squire Jellico now thought of marrying, whatever his 
promises had once been, and though in true justice she 
ought to have been the first. "When this sad knowledge 
came to her father, his rage was terrible, not only against 
the betrayer of his daughter, but against her ; while old 
Miss G-adsby, whose blind eyes were now doubly blinded, 
regarded the young and deceived victim alone as the guilty 
one. Poor Mr. Day had carried it with a high hand in the 
village, when he thought fortune would favour him ; and this 
was not forgotten by the villagers. He was a man whom no 
one liked, because so many had envied him, and he had no 
friends. He had been very proud, and now his downfall 
and humiliation cut him up, as some may say, to the very 
roots. In a few weeks time, so much did he take it to heart, 
that no one would have known him. From a strong, fleshy 
man he wasted away to a mere shadow, and died literally of 
a broken heart. His few things were sold up, and his 
daughter, then near her confinement, left the village 

I had some little interest in the parish, and as the young 
Squire gave it out that he should continue the fifty pounds 
a year salary, my brother, who was then living on a farm at 
Kirkton, sent for me out of Suffolk, and I was fortunate 
enough to be nominated against fourteen other candidates. 
I came the very day that poor Alice was last seen in the 
village. Her father had been buried the evening before ; 
and a melancholy funeral it was. With some help of the 
Squire, as was supposed, she went off to a distance, nobody 
knew where, but, as most people thought, amongst her own 
relations up in the north, where, I pray God, at this distant 
period — for it is twelve years since next May — she met with 
friends who would compassionate her hard fate. Within 
twelve months of the 'old Squire's death, the young Squire 
married the only daughter of Sir Leonard Harcourt, with 
whom he had a large fortune ; but the marriage, as is well 
known, is not a happy one, and is now childless, which, as 
people say, is a great grief to Squire Jellico ; for, in case of 
his leaving no heir male, all the property will go to his 
second cousin, Jukes Jellico, of Kent, with whom he is not 




U^^^yZ 



A. POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 351 

on good terms. Very unfortunate, is it for Moreton and 
ELirkton that this unhappy breach exists between those who 
are the true exemplars of a large population which naturally 
looks to them as its head. 

There is to be a great Christmas held at the Hall this 
year. Squire Jellico comes down, with many of his London 
friends, and great preparations are making for their recep- 
tion. I noticed an unusual sight as I walked within view 
of the Hall — viz. smoke coming out of eight different chim- 
neys. The gamekeepers are all alive in the preserves, and 
a butler and other servants from London are come down 
for the occasion. It is said that Mrs. Jellico has gone to 
Italy, and that the Squire makes these rejoicings in conse- 
quence. Hopes are entertained of his returning to live at 
the Hall, at least for part of the year, there being a rumour 
to that effect. It makes a great difference in a poor place 
like Moreton whether a large household is at the Hall or 
not, for money is sorely wanted here. 

Returned home late in the afternoon. The wind is still 
in the north, and the roads are beginning to be soft. I 
warned the boys off the ponds as I passed them. I saw nothing 
of the strange boy on my way back, nor could the lads give 
me any information, as he had not been seen by them that 
day. It is singular that I feel so strong an interest in him. 
But there is something uncommon in his look and behaviour. 
Openness and candour are so truly the attributes of child- 
hood, that we are startled by reserve and circumspection : 
yet he has not a depraved or cunning look, but a something 
singularly grave and penetrating in his eye, with that 
occasionally proud and defiant look which seems to resist 
and repel enquiry. I could imagine that he has had ex- 
perience not suited to his years ; there is a something about 
him, to use the homely adage, which reminds me of " the 
old head on the young shoulders." I may be deceiving 
myself — may be converting a poor common crow into a 
phcenix — but I confess to a sentiment towards him approach- 
ing to affection. I should like to attach such a being to 
me; my heart has unoccupied room which yearns for a 
tenant ; for early sorrow and disappointment do not close 
every heart against affection and human trust. 

21st. — Must have taken cold in my walk from Kirkton, 



352 LEAVES FKOM THE MART. OF 

as the roads were damp, and my shoes not of the best. 
Have been coulned to the house these two days. In the 
afternoon walked down to "Widow Marshall's. 'Found her 
in some anxiety, as the strange boy had not returned. He 
owed her eight een-pence for three nights' lodgings and 
victuals. I gave her the money, and thus settled his little 
score. We shall, perhaps, not see him again. 

22nd, Sunday. — Better of my cold. Attended morning 
service. As I sat in church I was well pleased to observe 
our young friend. He came not with the Widow Marshall, 
but he looked clean and decent. He sat in the aisle on the 
free benches, and conducted himself well during the service. 
The Sunday scholars came in in an orderly manner, with 
their teachers at their head, and marched up the aisle past 
him. If he remains in the parish I must have something 
done for him. 

The sermon, this day, was from the text, " They that are 
whole need not a physician, but they that are sick," — Luke, v. 
31. I hope some unction of the holy word may reach the 
heart of our strange lamb ! 

The church was pretty full, principally because the Squire 
and his friends were expected to be there. But the great 
pew was empty, although the new stove which has been put 
up had been lighted the day before, and all duly aired. 
Some of the servants, however, were in the church. After 
service it was found that the Squire did not arrive last night, 
nor is expected till Tuesday the 24th, when both he and 
his friends are looked for, Seven-and-twenty beds are made 
up, so that a large party is expected. 

In the afternoon I walked towards the ponds. The wind 
changed to north last night, and the ice is again firm, and, 
though it was Sunday, the boys were sliding. Query, can 
this be called breaking the Sabbath ? I had a discussion on 
the subject with Aaron Beak, the Methodist. He declares it 
to be so, and will not allow any of his Sunday scholars to 
play on that day. I saw my little friend again on the ice ; 
he was still by himself, but had ventured out much further, 
and was sliding pretty well. He is not mal adroit, as I 
imagined. I watched him for some time, meaning to beckon 
him to me ; but as soon as he saw me he came forward of 
his own accord, and thanked me for having paid his little 



A POOE SCHOOLMASTER. 353 

debt to Widow Marshall, " But," said he, with his proud 
manner, " I was not going to cheat her ; I meant to pay her, 
and I shall repay you. 

Without contesting this subject with him, I asked him to 
walk home with me, and I would give him a cup of tea. I 
doubted not but that I should overcome his reserve ; for 
kindness has great power. I did not, however, make much 
out, as I reserved my questions for the fireside, when I 
thought Becky's good tea and some seed cake, which Mrs. 
G-arnett had given me, would open his heart. When I 
reached home, however, I found Mr. Garnett and a friend 
of his come to drink tea and spend the evening with me ; so 
that I was reluctantly obliged to send my little friend into 
the kitchen, where, Becky not being in a good humour, I am 
afraid he was not well entertained, for he left before tea was 
well over. On my way home, however, I learned that he 
had been, as he said, to Kirkton ; had not only been in but 
over the Hall, and had been allowed to sleep in an outhouse. 
The old woman had given him some victuals, and had shown 
him the family pictures, and he had been in the church 
and seen the tombs there. He is probably an embryo 
antiquarian, whose name may become renowned in some 
iuture day ; for such tastes are rare in boys of his age and 
class. I asked him what made him take so great an interest 
in these old things. Again he put on that strange look, 
and, turning on me his large grey eyes, said coolly, but with 
a flushed countenance, that seemed to belie his words, that 
he didn't know. I counselled him to get some work to do ; 
and in reply he enquired if he could be employed at the 
Hall. I laughed ; saying I supposed he wanted to see the 
old rooms and the family pictures there. " Yes," said he, 
in a much more frank tone than was common to him. I 
promised, therefore, to ask Mrs. Julip, the housekeeper, to 
let him go through the Hall some day ; but, as the condition 
of this, made him promise to be a good boy, and get some 
work, and go to the Sunday school, to which I undertook to 
get him admitted. 

24th. — It is strange how my interest in this boy grows ; 
it is no common feeling of idle curiosity, or mere pity, that 
I have for him. 

I walked to-day through the town. It has been all astir, 
The Squire arrived at eight this morning, having travelled 

AA 



354 LEAYES EEOM THE DIARY OE 

post all night. Several parties arrived in the course of the 
day, and the " "White Lion" was thronged with postilions 
and post-horses. They were decorating the church with 
holly as I passed ; the door was open, and I walked in. To 
my surprise I found my young friend in the chancel ; he 
was reading the inscriptions on the tombs of the Jellicos. 
He can read well. I made him read several of them to me, 
and explained the Latin to him. I made him also read the 
Ten Commandments, the Creed, and the Lord's Prayer. 
But he knows these by heart. I asked him who had taught 
him. He said his mother. " And how came he to leave 
his mother?" I inquired. He turned hastily away, and 
wept. The boy has known sorrow, and the wound is yet 
fresh. 

O G-od ! if it be thy blessed will, let me fathom the depths 
of this young heart, the secrets of which are known to thee. 
Let me bring him as a lamb to thy fold ! Amen. 

25th, Christmas Day. — This has been a day of strange 
tribulation. A sudden thaw came on yesterday, and con- 
tinued though the night. After morning service, the boys, 
as usual, went to the ponds, but few ventured on the ice, as 
it was giving way. The poor stranger lad, for whom, as I 
have before said, these waters seemed to have a strange 
fascination, went down, leapt thoughtlessly from the bank 
across the water which had already covered the ice from the 
land, and began sliding at some distance. He was now a 
tolerable proficient, and very daring ; but, from his reserved 
manners, his evident poverty, and his being a stranger, he 
had no acquaintance among the village lads. jSTevertheless, 
some of them warned him of his danger. Before long, the 
ice on which another lad was sliding gave way, and he must 
have sunk had not the stranger rushed to the spot and pulled 
him out. But this brave act was only performed at his own 
sacrifice ; the ice broke in with him, and while the boy he 
had rescued was received on the bank by his comrades, our 
little hero sank. He made desperate efforts to save him- 
self ; but the ice all around was rotten, and soon gave way. 
His danger was instantly perceived by the boys on the 
water's edge, and a loud cry was raised. Several ran for 
help, and two, with noble courage, sprang upon the ice in 
the hope of saving him ; but a short time proved this to be 



A. POOK SCHOOLMASTEE. 355 

impossible. He was apparently left alone to perish. Pre- 
sently, however, some of the boys who had run to the village 
returned with men, bringing a rope, but unfortunately it 
was too short to reach him. By this time he was becoming 
exhausted. But a new anxiety seemed to possess him ; this 
was to save something, which appeared to be a small packet 
of papers, which for some time he held between his teeth, as 
if to preserve them from the water. After struggling for a 
long time, and making wonderful efforts to save himself, he 
sank to rise no more. I know not when any event of late 
years has so much distressed me. I did not hear of it till 
an hour afterwards, when Widow Marshall brought me 
word, she having been down to the ponds to see if nothing 
could be done to save him ; for, as she lives at that end of 
the village, her house was one of the first the boys ran to in 
their dismay. "Why did they not come instantly to me ? 
I ran down to the ponds, although I had no hope of life 
being restored, even if the body were found. A great crowd 
was on the banks, and two men with a boat and drags were 
on the water, the ice having been broken for that purpose ; 
but the poor body must have been floated away, for it could 
not be found. As I stood on the edge of the water, thinking 
of the poor houseless lad who had just lost his life, I turned 
my eyes in the direction of the Hall, which from this point 
is wholly visible. It was becoming dusk, and the large 
mansion was lighted up as if for a great festivity. There is 
a grand Christmas entertainment there to-night ; for though 
Mrs. Jellico is absent, the Dean of Windsor, who is a rela- 
tion of the Squire's, is there, with his lady, and a large family 
party, and all the gentry of the neighbourhood — nay, of haif 
the country, are invited. What a contrast was this to the 
cold dreary night, the desolate water, the drowned but un- 
found body of the fatherless, motherless, and homeless boy ! 
Life is full of strange contrasts ! 

I feel as if I had sustained a great loss — as if life had 
been deprived of something of worth. What might not 
that boy have been to me ! What undeveloped powers lay 
not within him — what a wealth of feeling and affection ! 

Lord ! thy ways are mysterious ; life and death are in 
thy hands ! This poor lamb has not perished without thy 



356 LEAVES EEOM THE DIAET OF 

knowledge. What he has been thou knowest ; and it is of 
thy wisdom, which takes cognizance of the falling sparrow, 
that his span of life has been cut thus short. Amen. 

26th. — The body has not been found. I have thought 
much to-day of the papers which the poor boy appeared so 
anxious to save. They say that he was heard to exclaim 
with a despairing voice, " I have lost them!" just before he 
sank. He held them between his teeth, probably in the 
vain hope of keeping them dry. "What could they be ? My 
curiosity suggests many ideas. Perhaps some last letter of 
his mother ; perhaps a little money. God only knows ! In 
the idea that it might be money, some of the men were ad- 
ditionally eager in their search. I confess to a desire to 
know myself. 

27th. — Had a strange dream or vision last night. It 
seemed to me to be the day-break of a summer's morning. 
A sunny mist of an opal colour appeared to fill my chamber, 
gathering round my bed, at the foot of which lay a bright- 
ness as of noon-day, and amid these, gradually revealed them- 
selves, as if fashioned of light, two figures, — the strange boy 
and a woman of resplendent beauty. The boy had the same 
countenance, but beautiful exceedingly ; and the woman 
held him by the hand. They looked at me with an ex- 
pression of divine love ; and I seemed to hear, although not 
by outward speech, these words : " These are mother and 
son ; she was the schoolmaster's daughter, of whom thou 
hast heard." The knowledge thus conveyed brought with 
it no astonishment, but a calm certainty, as of eternal truth. 

""Yes," I seemed to say to myself; "thou art the 
daughter of Nathaniel Day, and this is thy son ; and it is 
now well with thee." 

"It is well," she replied. "With that all disappeared, 
and I awoke. It was pitch dark in my room. I sat up in 
bed, and looked round ; for the impression of my dream was 
still as strong in my mind as reality itself ; but there was 
nothing. 

Perhaps this singular dream or vision was but the effect 
of my excited feelings, for the loss of the boy has troubled 
me much. Perhaps supernatural appearances, so called, 
are the deepest of truths, and I have been privileged to have 



A POOR SCHOOLMASTEE. 357 

the secrets of the grave laid open before me, to behold the 
dead, or, more correctly speaking, the really living. I know 
not. I dare not disbelieve, nor yet wholly believe. 

It may be so. This boy may be the child of poor Alice 
Day, and the papers which he was so anxious to save might 
contain proofs of the fact. And I must confess that 
the expression of proud reserve which struck me so much in 
his countenance is not unlike that of the Jellicos. "What 
would have been the consequence had he lived and asserted 
his claim of parentage on the Squire ? God only knows ! 
But he needs no earthly father now. The Great Father of 
all has taken him home — has provided for him among the 
angels. The subject can matter to no one now. I therefore 
shall not speak of my dream, for there are many Sadducees 
even in a poor ignorant place like Moreton. In these pages 
and in the faithful chronicle of my memory let it alone 
remain. 

30th. — This day the body was found. A boy who was 
on his way to Kirkton this morning ran back to the village 
with the news that he could see the poor drowned boy's shoes 
near the bank under the ice. He was taken out and carried 
to the Nag's Head, near Widow Marshall's. I went down 
to see him ; he was laid on a board in the great club room, 
and the coroner's inquest was held about three in the after- 
noon. The body was as fresh and the countenance as un- 
disfigured as if he were lying in a decent and placid sleep. 
This was astonishing to all ; and Mr. Hatherall, the coroner, 
who had lately lost a son, a fine lad of twelve, was so much 
affected at the sight as to be unable to speak for some time. 
As for myself, it was more than I could bear. I stayed but a 
short time in the room, and, cutting off a lock of his dark 
hair, returned home, when I spent some time in Scripture 
reading, which I always find consolatory to my spirits. 

31st. — The last day of the year. This being the alternate 
Sunday when there was no afternoon service, the poor lad's 
funeral was ordered for three o'clock. It was a parish 
funeral of course ; but what did that matter ? I who had 
been privileged to see the spirit in its blessedness, could not 
mourn that his poor perishable remains were unattended to 
their last resting-place by worldly pomp. Nevertheless, I 
paid half-a-crown to Mr. Coates, the undertaker, for the use 



358 LEAVES EBOM THE DIAET OE 

of a pall, and I and the Widow Marshall agreed to see the 
poor body laid decently in the earth. The funeral was some- 
what later than was intended, owing to a farmer's funeral 
from Heathlands, which was to take place first, being after 
time. The Sunday scholars, therefore, were all out, and 
thronged about the Nag's Head door to see it move off. I 
went out to them, and spoke a few words about the poor lad 
who had come a stranger among them, only, as it were, to 
give proof of a noble heart and noble self-sacrifice, and then 
to die. Some of the children, the girls especially, seemed 
much affected ; I marshalled them, therefore, in a little 
order, for the coffin just then came out, and they followed 
in twos and twos, Mrs. Marshall and I bringing up the rear. 
I had on my best black suit, and she wore mourning which 
she had borrowed ; so that it was a respectable funeral. 

Just as we got out of Nag's Head Lane into the main 
street the Squire's carriage drove up ; he was going out, and 
two gentlemen were with him. Our little funeral pro- 
cession stopped the way, and his coachman pulled up. The 
Squire seemed in a very merry humour, and putting his 
head out of the window, asked Tim Stephens, the barber, 
what funeral that was ? Tim replied that it was only a 
poor lad whom nobody knew, that had been drowned in the 
pond — that was all ! The Squire drove on, and I pondered 
seriously on the mysteries of life. There father and son 
met : where would their next meeting be ? 

April 12th. — The swallows are come. The boys brought 
me word that one and another had seen them singly, or in 
twos and threes. The spring this year is steady and genial, 
and full of amenities. "Worked in my garden, this being a 
half- holiday. The primroses which I set under the nut 
hedge are very beautiful, and the wild red variety which I 
brought out of the fields last spring flourishes well. I will 
plant many more of these roots, as well as of the oxlip, which 
likes my garden greatly. It is not every wild flower that 
can bear cultivation ; the whole tribe of orchises, for instance, 
seems to resist human endeavours, while the primrose and 
oxlip, and a few others, take all in a kindly spirit, and make 
gracious returns. I have mentioned to the boys my wish 
for these flowers. 



A POOS SCHOOLMASTEB. 359 

16th. — My desire to have some roots of the red primrose 
has led to a singular discovery. Surely we are only agents 
in the hand of a Mighty Power, and our lightest wishes 
tend to purposes, and are linked with effects, of which we 
ourselves have not the remotest idea. 

I worked in my garden as usual this Saturday afternoon ; 
and when I considered my day's work about done, and was 
summoned by Becky to tea, the true interest of the day only 
just began. Tim Stevens and Jack Bartlett, to whom 
every close and dingle in the parish are known, brought me 
a basket full of red primrose and oxlip roots, which I imme- 
diately planted. They had taken with them an old basket 
for that purpose, in the bottom of which, it being full of 
holes, they had laid some old written paper to keep the soil 
from falling through. There has ever been a great fascina- 
tion to me in written paper. Having set my roots, there- 
fore, with which I was well pleased, I took out the damp 
and crumpled paper, which, having carefully freed from 
mould, I laid on the hearth to dry while I drank my tea. It 
is a folio sheet of paper, closely written over in a woman's 
hand, and appears to be a letter or narrative, but without 
either beginning or end : and portions of it, from apparent 
exposure to weather or other rough usage, are quite illegible. 
Beginning at once with the first word, the middle of a sen- 
tence, I write down as follows : — 

" nor can be convinced but that I am your wedded wife, 
although I am an outcast, and have been suffered to perish 
in want. In this belief I die. My heart is broken : but 
that cannot signify to him who has allowed things to go on 
as they have done. Oh, Charles ! let me recall the past" — 
(Here many lines are illegible) — " and known only to Grod, 
for to none have my sorrows and sufferings been revealed. 
I was assured of a legal marriage, and then, in my extremest 
need, I received from you an asseverated declaration that I 
had been deceived, and that I could make no legal claim on 
you, but must live a dishonoured woman, and that my child 
must bear the stigma of illegitimacy. Had I, then, no cause 
of complaint ? You blamed me for not submitting to disho- 
nour — for not remaining to be your mistress when I knew 
myself no longer your wife. I would not receive your visits 
on these terms, and therefore the barest means of subsist- 



330 LEAVES EEOM THE DIAET OF 

ence for me and my child were refused." (Again a consi- 
derable portion which I cannot decipher) — "my applica- 
tions on his behalf were scorned. I received no answers to 
my letters ; and at length came one from your wife ! God 
in heaven ! why did I not become mad ? I know not. Mad 
I must have become, or I should have committed suicide, 
but that I had yet a tie to life ; and that was my child — 
your child ! 

" I loved you in the young, wonderfully bright years 
which now appear to me ages ago, as if a portion of some 
former existence — loved you with that adoring, confiding 
love, which the young humbly-born girl gives to her wealthy 
lover. But still I was virtuous. It was necessary for you 
to practise the cruellest, the basest deception, for you to 
delude me into the belief that I was your wife, before I be- 
came yours. I saw reason why our marriage should be 
concealed. Alas! I should as soon have doubted in Heaven 
as in you. But when the true time for acknowledgment 
came — when no outward impediment stood longer in the 
way, and you were master of your own actions — what was 
the acknowledgment as regarded me and my unborn child ? 
— that we were disgraced; that we had no legal hold," 
(Here, again, many lines are effaced.) " I did not ask aid 
from them, for I and my poor babe were worse than heathens 
in their eyes. "We were literally without friends — alone in 
the wide world. I had a little school, and I endeavoured 
conscientiously before Grod to do my duty ; but my health 
failed. Eor some time I had the hope of a permanent situa- 
tion as the teacher of a large national school, in which I should 
have been well provided for ; but at the rery moment when 
I thought all was settled — after months of anxious waiting — 
it was whispered that my child was not born in wedlock. 
Grod forgive me ! I had represented myself as a widow ; and 
a widow, indeed, I was. I was called before the committee 
without the slightest intimation of wherefore ; and was de- 
sired by a grave and reverend gentleman, in the presence of 
twelve others, to produce my marriage certificate. Prevari- 
cation was now hopeless. The closest scrutiny was com- 
menced. I dared not deny the truth, and with many tears, 
though I never spoke my betrayer's name, stated how I had 
been deceived by a sham marriage. But my candour availed 



A. POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 361 

nothing. I was now a sinner in two ways : I was a mother 
though not a wife ; and I had lied to the committee. I had 
wilfully endeavoured to deceive them, and to bring disgrace 
on their philanthropy. I stood humbled and confounded 
before them, like the woman taken in sin ; but there was no 
Christ Jesus there to silence them with his reproof of love. 
Every hand flung a stone at me. I was crushed and over- 
whelmed, and I went from their presence like a detected 
thief. I had now not only no friends, but many enemies. 

" My boy was now seven. The Saviour's words seemed 
spoken in reference to him, when he said of little children, 
' Eor of such is the kingdom of heaven !' If it had pleased 
the Divine Justice to visit my shortcomings and backslid- 
ings with the stern condemnation of suffering, he had 
mingled mercy in my bitter cup in this child. Beautiful 
was he in person, and of a divine spirit." (Here follows 
another portion which is illegible ; — and let me now bear 
testimony against myself. I no longer read this letter with 
closed eyes. It was written by Alice Day — she who ap- 
peared to me in that wonderful dream. I have, of a truth, 
been singularly mixed up in this affair. This, then, is the 
very paper which the poor lad made such efforts to save. 
Perish it could not. Grod, in his inscrutable providence, has 
saved it from the drowning waters, and sent it to my hand. 
I must transcribe the rest, though the poor writer meant it 
for other eyes than mine ; and I must learn from the boys 
in the morning where this was found, and if there yet re- 
mains more. I now proceed :) 

"My health was wholly gone. The friend who had 
shown me such kindness in the hospital did not desert me 
when we both came out. We took a room together, and 
worked for the ready-made linen shops. In order that no 
after discoveries might be prejudicial to me with her, I told 
her the truth. She loved me only the more for it. "We 
divided our little earnings between us, and my boy was a 
child to us both. She was a much better workwoman than 
I, but she was frequently laid up with sickness. I was her 
nurse, and then worked double time. Our life was a slow 
death. Eor three years we thus struggled on together, and 
then she fell ill with ophthalmia. She was removed to the 
Ophthalmic Hospital, and in three days she was carried off 



362 LEAYES EEOM THE DIAET OF 

suddenly by an acute disease of" which the doctors had not 
been aware. Her death was a great blow. I had thought 
of late years that I was grown callous to suffering ; but her 
death proved it not to be so. 

" Another trial came. One of the good district visitors, 
to whom my poverty and my willing industry were known, 
recommended me as the female superintendent of a benevo- 
lent institution, which was just established. My few long- 
disused acquirements fitted me for it, but my marriage 
certificate was again demanded. I made this time no pre- 
tence of widowhood, and told the truth, only, — as before, 
carefully concealing your name. But the truth testified 
against me. The good district visitor shook his head mourn- 
fully, and my name was not even proposed. 

" Eighteen months now succeed, which are but a fierce 
and hopeless battle against the cruellest ills of life — sickness 
and absolute want. Downward and ever downward is the 
career of poverty, if not in crime, at least in misery. I, who 
had in former years prided myself on beauty, and to whom 
beauty had been a snare, was now prematurely old; my 
joints racked with rheumatism, and my fingers incapable of 
holding the needle, which had once been the means of bread. 
I should have died in the Union workhouse, but that to go 
there I should be severed from my child. He it was who 
now worked. For eighteen months we have lived on his 
earnings. He knows all, for he is not merely a child. The 
hard realities of life have given to him the wisdom of ma- 
turer years. 

" I write this with death before me : it is the only legacy 
I have to leave him. I have told him all the love which 
filled my soul for his father. I meant, perhaps, to awaken 
abhorrence in his heart ; but, like the prophet in the Old 
Testament, I, who came to curse, remained to bless. We 
have both of us received only evil at your hand, yet we love 
you! Close not, then, your heart against your child! 

" I hear that Grod has been pleased to remove your lawful 
heir by death. My child can never fill his place in the eye 
of the law ; but oh ! I beseech you with my dying breath, 
give him a place in your heart, and let him not, with all his 
noble gifts and his generous self-forgetting impulses, be an 
outcast in the world ! My last prayer to Grod is, that He 



A POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 363 

will incline jour heart to your child, and make him a bless- 
ing to you — a blessing beyond worldly" 

Here the manuscript breaks off abruptly ; and, as it does 
not conclude the sheet, I imagine that she died and left the 
sentence unfinished. The beginning, then, only is wanting, 
and that I must endeavour to obtain if possible. 

It is now long past midnight : I am too much agitated for 
sleep : I must therefore turn to my Bible before I seek my 
pillow. 

17th. Easter Sunday. — B-ose early after a sleepless night, 
and went in search of the two boys. I asked them where 
they had found the paper which was under the flower-roots ; 
and Stephens, who is a ready talker — perhaps because he is 
the son of a barber, who are proverbially nimble-tongued — 
soon gave me the information. He said he was looking 
among the old sedges, by the lower pond, for reed sparrows' 
nests, as they were on their way to Crab-tree Dingle for the 
primroses, when Jack Bartlett, who carried the basket, sud- 
denly exclaimed that he had forgotten to get a bit of paper 
to put in the bottom to keep the soil from tumbling through ; 
and just at that moment he saw some paper lying among 
the dry sedge roots ; he picked it up and laid it in the 
basket : that was all. I did not wish to excite curiosity ; 
therefore, after some further talk on casual subjects^ I got 
them to describe the exact spot, and then set off by myself 
to find what further waif and stray might be cast up by the 
waters of the pond. My search was more successful than I 
expected. I found also, among the dry roots of the hedge, a 
little old pocket-book, covered with dry mud, and which, 
having been saturated with water, was now dried by the 
sun and wind. 

I opened it with a peculiar sentiment of awe and interest. 
The hands which last closed it were cold in the grave, and 
it was itself evidence of events and feelings which had been 
mysteriously laid open before me. The flap of the pocket- 
book was torn, and thus the letter had fallen out ; but the 
rest of the contents seemed safe. It is one of those " Ladies' 
Memorandum Books," which are published every year ; and 
this bears date fourteen years ago, and contained occasional 
notings down, mostly rendered illegible by the wet. One or 
two, however, I can make out thus : — " May 6. At Kirkton 



364 LEAVES PROM THE DIAEY OE* 

Miss G. gave me a new gingham dress ; it is pink, and very- 
pretty. June 12. Miss Gr. angry because I trod on Pan's 
tail. Have finished the mits : Miss Gr. likes them. My 
father fetched me home. 26. Back again at Kirkton. I 
do love this old house, and all its old pictures and furniture. 
Miss Gr. cannot do without me ; she is very good to-day. 
Have brought my father's shirts here to finish." These are 
a specimen of the entries contained in the book : evidences 
they are of a simple, innocent, child-like life. She knew not 
love : the serpent had not then entered her Eden. 

The larger packet contained various short but passionate 
declarations of love, bearing date a year later, and signed 
C. J. (Charles Jellico), and two others of a still later date, 
evidently written after she had illegally become his wife. 

I am tossed and tempested in mind. Perhaps I have done 
wrong in reading them. I think not ; for how otherwise 
could I know their nature ; and I shall make no unworthy 
use of them. But one thing, however, is clear to me. The 
unfinished letter was designed for Mr. Jellico' s reading, and 
to him it shall go. The pocket-book, perhaps, was meant 
only for. the boy, — I know not ; but it also shall go to the 
Squire — to the writer of those delusive letters — to the de- 
stroyer of that innocent heart, which has left its child-like 
impress on those pages. 

God has mysteriously put these things into my hands, 
and I pray for His guidance, and that I may not run in my 
own strength. I was too late for morning service ; and 
though I am very unwilling to set an example of absence 
from church, yet at this moment, when my hand needed His 
guidance, and my heart the consolation of His love, I felt the 
great outward temple which He has opened all around us 
for His worship as the fittest place for me. I sat, therefore, 
in the quietness of the sunshiny meadows, within sight of 
the boy's death-place and the father's home, and laid the 
whole before God, humbly beseeching his guidance. 

In the afternoon I attended service. The text was, 
" "Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it quickly ;" which I 
applied to myself. I will do quickly the work which is laid 
upon me. 

This is Easter Sunday. — " Christ is not here — he is risen," 
were the words spoken by the angels to the weeping women 



A POOR SCHOOLMASTER. 305 

who were early at the sepulchre of our Lord. The dead 
aisc have arisen : have I not had a blessed evidence of this ? 
Tney who on this earth have resembled our Lord in humilia- 
tion and sorrow, have like him arisen to glory. 

O Lord, I thank thee for thy mercies — for the vision of 
bliss which thou didst vouchsafe unto me ! and that I was 
counted worthy to know thy secret dealings with those who 
on earth were thy weeping children ! Amen. 

Easter Monday. — This being holiday, I put on my Sun- 
day suit, and walked up to the hall. I felt considerably 
agitated, as my errand was so strange and altogether unpre- 
cedented; and the Squire, though well disposed towards me, 
is not a man of easy access, or one who relishes the familiar 
approach of inferiors. I found him, however, more affable 
than usual : he had just finished breakfast, and conducted 
me into the library, where, he said, he preferred transacting 
business. He seated himself in a large leathern chair, and 
pointing to me to take another, turned to me with a laugh, 
saying— 

" "Well, Mr. Groodman, what trouble have you now in 
hand ? Is the school-house burned down, or have the chil- 
dren got the small-pox?" 

" Sir," I said, " it is not a trifle which brings me to you ; 
neither is it a laughing matter." 

Here I related, as briefly as possible, the history of the 
boy's sojourn amongst us, recalling to his mind the funeral 
which had stopped his carriage on the last evening of the 
old year. Without exciting his suspicions as to what my 
communication tended to, I then added, that, strange as it 
might appear, the papers about which the last living 
thoughts of the boy had been occupied, aDd which had come 
into my hands, appeared to have reference to himself ; and 
that I considered it right, therefore, that they should pass 
direct from my hands into his own. 

The Squire looked somewhat grave ; but he assumed a 
careless air, and, putting forth his hand to receive the packet, 
said — 

" Very good. You can leave them with me, and when I 
have leisure I will attend to them." 

With this I took my leave. 

19th. — JNo message from the Squire. I feel anxious and 



866 LEAVES EROM THE DIARY OE 

.perturbed. I desire to know the effect produced on til's 
hard man of the world by that affecting chronicle of suffer- 
ing caused by himself. 

23rd, Saturday. — The Squire came to my house to-day. I 
had just finished tea when Becky rushed in, all excitement, 
saying that he was walking in the garden, and desired to 
speak with me. I went out, well knowing that this visit 
could have reference to only one subject. Before going out, 
however, I bade my servant Becky go and inquire after 
Joseph Pudsey, who, though an old man, is ill of hooping- 
cough — a very rare case : for I wished her out of the way 
before I brought the Squire into the house, having reason to 
suspect her of listening. 

The first words the Squire put to me were, whether I had 
read the papers which I had put into his hand. 

I replied that I had done so ; and, moreover, I again re- 
lated to him how they had fallen into my hands ; for though 
I had already told him this, he seemed to have forgotten it. 

He said I had done very wrong, as they ought to have 
been given at once into his hand, seeing they were on pri- 
vate business, and that of a serious nature. I showed him, 
in return, how impossible it would have been for me to know 
for whom they were designed, unless they had been first 
read : saying, furthermore, that it was well that they fell 
into my hands instead of others', who might not have re- 
spected their contents as 1 had done. He could not but 
confess the truth of my words ; and then, resting his head 
upon his hand, sunk in deep thought for some time, his 
countenance wearing an air of deep dejection. 

I respected his feelings too much to break the silence, 
and waited for him to speak. At length he said in a low 
and tremulous voice, " You are a man of honour, Mr. 
Goodman ; and I believe that any confidence reposed in you 
will be inviolate. In your eyes I appear at this moment as 
a villain ; few, however, are so bad but that something may 
be said in their extenuation. I will now, as regards this most 
unhappy affair, relate to you some facts which have never 
before passed my lips ; and these, though they may not 
excuse me, will prove at least that I am not wholly hard- 
ened, and that I have not been without my own share of 
suffering." 



A POOE SCHOOLMASTER. 3G7 

For half an hour he spoke, and I listened without inter- 
rupting him, satisfied that not only are the wages of sin 
death, but that the greater the violation of principle and the 
sin against knowledge, the severer the penalty inflicted by 
an accusing conscience. I pitied the man whom I thus saw 
agonised by self-condemnation ; but I will not reveal — will 
not commit even to this sacred transcript of my life and my 
feelings — the agony of another, who, in a moment of self- 
forgetfulness, perhaps, laid bare before me the secrets of his 
own soul. 

Father of love and mercy ! I bless thee that thou leavest 
none, not even the hardest and proudest sinner, without a 
witness for Thee, which sooner or later will make itself 
heard, and bring back the wanderer to Thee, through the 
redeeming love of our Saviour, Christ. 

24th. — I am in a singular position with regard to the 
Squire. I knew too much regarding him either for his 
peace or my own. I regret the confidence which he has 
placed in me ; he will soon regret it himself, if he have not 
done it already. It will be galling to a proud spirit like 
his, .and he will probably seek to remove me from this place. 

26th. — Becky brings me word that the Squire has sud- 
denly left the Hall : he set off for London last night, travel- 
ling post as usual. Some think this has reference to his 
lady, who is now in Rome. More probably, I think, it is 
owing to his communication to me. He has, perhaps, left 
this neighbourhood for ever. 

30th. — Letter from the Squire in London. He offers me 
his interest in obtaining the situation of master of a grammar- 
school in Yorkshire, the income of which is one hundred 
pounds per annum. I am taken by surprise. I know not 
whether this is meant by him as a punishment or a reward. 
I do not of my own free will incline to leave this place, to 
the rising generation of which I am become greatly attached. 
Yorkshire is a land of strangers to me, and I feel as one 
about to be disinherited : yet, so full of contradictory im- 
pulses is the heart, that I do not feel free to decline it. I 
am in a sore perplexity. 

Lord ! I am in thy hands : do thou guide me, and all 
will then be well ! 



THE HUNNYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 



CHAPTER I. 



THE HTTNNYBUNS LOCATE THEMSELYES AT A RURAL SPOT BY THE SEA, 

Mr. Httnistbttn's business, which depended on the sitting 
of Parliament, being over with the prorogation of that 
august body, he determined to do as the members of both 
houses had done, fly off into the country. By the fatigues 
of a laborious session, made particularly so to Mr. Hunny- 
bun by the habit that honourable members of late had got of 
calling for returns on all possible subjects, our worthy friend 
felt his whole system relaxed, and therefore, as he jocosely 
observed to Mrs. Hunnybun, he resolved to relax himself a 
little by the sea — the relaxation of that element being known 
to be the homoeopathic remedy for the relaxation occasioned 
by over-work in town. 

This was good news for Mrs. Hunnybun, for the two grand- 
children, Quintus and Mira, and for the grown-up nephew 
and niece, Mr. Augustus and Miss Angela Hunnybun. 
There was a general jubilation at breakfast as Mr. Hunny- 
bun announced this agreeable resolve. Mrs. Hunnybun at 
once proposed a few weeks' sojourn in the Isle of "Wight . 
the children had an idea that Broadstairs would be a very' 
nice place, because, as they well knew that they should get 
a good share of plunging in the sea, they fancied that it 
must be very safe and pleasant to go down broad-stairs into 
the terrific element. Mr Hunnybun laughed at this origi- 



■■ 



THE HTTNTSTETTN'S AT THE SEA-STEE. 309 

ml idea, but said nothing till he had had the opinion of his 
nephew and niece. Mr. Augustus Hunnybun was for no mere 
dabblings and three-stride excursions, as he called them, but 
to dash off at once to the Continent. Wonders, he re- 
marked, could be done in a couple of months. There was a 
party projecting a yachting voyage to the north. They 
were to coast the west of Scotland ; pass through the 
"Western Isles ; see Staffa and Iona ; take in a cargo of 
terriers at the Isle of Skye ; then to the Paro Isles, and 
thence to Iceland. Then they were to make an expedition 
to the G-eysers and to Hecla, boil their eggs in the hot 
fountains, gather rein-deer moss, shoot wild fowl, make 
researches in the ancient language and learning of the 
mother country of Scandinavia, and achieve other matters, 
all in the steam speed and capacity of the present day. 
Then they were to touch on their return at Bergen, advance 
into the country and shoot bears and capercailsies, explore 
forests and mountains, and make extensive geological, 
zoological, ethnological, and philological observations — all in 
ten days or so. 

Mr. Hunnybun smiled sagaciously at the comprehensive 
scheme of Augustus, and asked Angela what was her idea 
of a trip. Angela preferred a trip southward : just taking 
Normandy, Paris — a week there — an excursion on the great 
Tonnere [Railway, a rapid view of Switzerland, Savoy, Lom- 
bardy, Roine, Naples, and so home by the Pyrenees and 
Oporto. 

" Upon my word !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun, " and that 
the rising generation call 'rest,' and 'relaxation,' and 're- 
cruiting one's exhausted frame !' Upon my word ! I am 
very much afraid I shall have but little of your company, 
for I am projecting nothing half so magnificent. As for 
Norway and Naples — heaven help us ! Why, my dear Mrs. 
Hunnybun, I don't even think of venturing* so far south as 
Eyde, nor even Southampton. I am disposed nor'ardly ; but 
not quite to Bergen and the Faro Isles. What think you 
of Preestone, by Boston in the Lincolnshire Wash ; or to 
Bridlington Quay?" 

" Preestone ! Bridlington Quay !" Never was there 
such a fall from a balloon. All sat chapfallen and woe- 
begone. 

B B 



87ft THE HEKNTETTN'S AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

" Well," said Mr. Hunnybun, "perhaps one might ven- 
ture a little farther ; say Filey, or Scarborough. I want 
rest, and yet abracing air. As foryoa, Augustus, you can fish, 
and shoot, and ride ; and mind, Angela, that you take your 
habit with you — there are splendid sands at Filey, I hear ; 
and young ladies look well on horseback. And while I and 
your aunt take our quiet strolls on the cliffs, you young ones 
can have a sail or a gallop, that may better suit the motion 
of your young blood. As for Quintus and Mira, I'll answer 
for there being sand-spades, and young crabs, and star-fish, 
and shells, and precious stones, enough to fill up all their 
time, with a donkey or so in the bargain." 

" Well, that's not so very bad after all," said Augustus, 
musingly, " I and Angela will have some famous gallops : 
there are horses to be had, of course ?" 
" Of course !" said Mr. Hunnybun. 
" And pleasure-boats, and all that sort of thing ?" 
" Pleasure-boats, and all sorts of things, no doubt," 
added Mr. Hunnybun. 

Angela brightened up, spite of all her gay visions of Paris 
and Naples ; and good Mrs. Hunnybun thought that she 
preferred Yorkshire to the Isle of Wight. Is was not so 
hackneyed ; and they would not be so far off Whitby, of 
which she had read in Marmion. 

"And then," added Mr. Hunnybun, "we can kill two 
birds with one stone." 

"What birds ?" asked Quintus and Mira; "puffins or 
penguins ?" 

" No," said Mr. Hunnybun, delighted that every one had 
fallen so agreeably into his scheme, after their more soaring 
speculations : " I mean our health and the Great Northern 
Bail way." 

" Kill our health, my dear, and the Great Northern Bail- 
way !" said Mrs. Hunnybun, in astonishment. 

" Well," replied Mr. Hunnybun, " my metaphor was not 
exactly the best, but my intentions were. I mean, we can 
travel by the Great Northern, in which I have a good num- 
ber of shares. It is just opened — quite a propos — and we 
shall see how it works." 

So the Hunnybun family were at once in the ardour of 
packing. Augustus sallied forth to make sundry purchases 



THE HTT^NYBTTN'S AT THE SEA- SIDE. 371 

of personal and sporting apparatus. Angela thought of 
sundry others on her own account. Mrs. Hunnybun must 
have strong shoes for the children, and over-shoes for herself. 
Mr. Hunnybun had to go to the Bank, andto supply himself 
with a new umbrella and walking-cane ; and the next morn- 
ing the Hunnybun family were seen setting off in a couple 
of heavily-laden cabs for the station at King's Cross. 

Soon they were skimming along through a succession of 
little tunnels, and over a pleasant country, greatly to the 
satisfaction of the whole party. Anon they saw the old 
town of Hatfield, with the battlements of the ancient manor 
peeping over the housetops, and the wooded park on the 
right ; Mr. Hunnybun taking care to remind his family that 
there the good Queen Elizabeth passed some of her carefully- 
watched and guarded youth. Away they posted past Hun- 
tingdon, the whilom residence of the great brewer Cromwell, 
who brewed such a tempest in England, past the church at 
Peterborough, and over the fiats of Lincolnshire, greet- 
ing the lofty " Stump of Boston," and away on for the 
Humber. 

Mr. Hunnybun contemplated with profound satisfaction 
the accurate time kept by the train, according to the bill 
furnished him at the Station. As a proprietor it inspired 
him with pride and hope, and his remarks were echoed by a 
substantial-looking passenger, who, with a clever, knowing 
look, and a huge thick pilot-coat under him, as if expecting 
rough weather this August, sat opposite him in the well 
cushioned and airy carriage. 

To all the Hunnybuns' historical recollections, whether 
they regarded Queen Bess, Oliver Cromwell, Hereward the 
Saxon, or the learned monks of Croyland, the sagacious 
stranger replied, — " Yes, they were all true English charac- 
ters ; there was no country like England ; England was the 
top of the world." This compartment of the carriage 
accommodated eight passengers ; and this solid-looking 
English character, with a gentleman whom it was soon dis- 
covered farmed his own land, filled the two seats unoccupied 
by the Hunnybuns. 

" You're a traveller, Sir," observed Mr. Augustus Hunny- 
bun, as with a little malice prepense 



572 THE HUN-NTBTT1TS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

" How did you find that out, young gentleman ?" asked 
the stranger with the thick blue pilot-coat. 

" I judge so," answered Augustus, " or you could not so 
precisely have settled what England was, and what it was 
not." 

" Tou judge rightly," replied the stranger, " I have seen 
a thing or two abroad. I've gone through France by Dyjon 
into Savoy, through Genoa, Lombardy, Veeniss, Lucre, Pysar, 
and so on to Naples, Malta?', Marseales, and then back 
again." 

All wondered at' the extensive travels of this knowing- 
looking gentleman, and Mr. Hunnybun remarked to Mrs. 
Hunnybun in a whisper, — " Every inch an Englishman ; 
he scorns to give any thing but an English pronunciation to 
foreign towns and countries. " 

Mr. Hunnybun, who was what is termed English to the 
back-bone himself, felt respect for his uncompromising 
countryman, and entered into conversation with him on the 
places he had visited, and that to such effect, that the young 
farmer said, — 

" Bless me, sir ! I envy your power of travelling through 
such fine countries. The next time you go, I wish you'd 
take me under your wing." 

" Under my wing !" ejaculated the very English stranger ; 
" why you are no chicken yourself ; you could go there with- 
out either me or your mother, I guess." 

" I cannot speak a word of any language but my own, sir," 
said the young man, somewhat apologetically. 

" Whose language would you speak but your own ?" re- 
turned the stranger ; " I speak none but my own blessed 
mother tongue. No, no ; there's no language like good 
sound English ; and if a man cannot speak that, why I'd 
scorn him, and have nothing to do with such a thick-headed 
fellow." 

" But I should look like a fool," said the young landed 
proprietor, " if any one spoke to me in Erench or Italian, 
and I could not answer him." 

" But you need not look like a fool," said the stout 
stranger, dragging out his huge blue pilot-coat, and placing 
it on his knee as he looked out of the window, as if contem- 



THE HTnStfYBUtfS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 373 

plating a departure, — " you need not look like a fool, unless 
you are one. Do I look like a fool, think you ? — and no- 
thing but the Queen's blessed English ever passed my lips, 
— and for why ? Because I never learnt any other, and 
would not if I could. It's for them foreigners to learn my 
lingo, if they mean to trade with me." 

" Ton travel in trade !" said Augustus, in astonishment. 

" In trade ! to be sure, my young gentleman ; for what else 
should a sensible man travel ?" rejoined the stranger, pull- 
ing out his ticket in readiness to stop. "What should a 
true Englishman travel for — if he is worth calling an 
Englishman — and not to eat what they call ' bully,' but 
what I call beef done to death in the soup copper, and to 
stare at rocks and waves, and hear people sing. One can 
see and hear all these things better at home. I sit still, sir, 
and let all these come to me. That's it ! But when money 
is to be made, and the country's capital is to be augmented, 
why, then I'm up and off, as I am now ; for here's Great 
Grinisby, and I've a ship come in, or I'm much mistaken." 

The whistle sounded, the train slackened its pace, the sea 
gleamed up blue from the right, and the great, knowing, 
very English traveller, cried, " Here !" as the man at the 
station cried " Grimsby !" and was in the act of descending 
with a " Good-day to ye !" when Mr. Hunnybun begged he 
would favour him with his address. The stranger took a 
card from his waistcoat-pocket, and was gone. 

" An Englishman every inch !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun. 
" What character ! what independence ! the man makes all 
the world bend to his inborn vigour ! A true-born Anglo- 
Saxon, a true-born Briton — the whole of him, mind and 
body, bone and muscle !" 

"Who is he ?" asked Augustus. 

Mr. Hunnybun was adjusting his spectacles, when looking 
at the card his face exhibited the most unfeigned asto- 
nishment. " Heaven and earth !" he exclaimed, " who could 
have thought it !" 

" What !" ejaculated the whole party; " who can it be ?" 

Mr. Hunnybun took off his spectacles, gave a great puff 
with distended cheeks, as if sending forth a whole gust of 
wonder, and handed the card, of a very plain and English 
description, rather soiled but not the more illegible for that j 



374 THE HTJNSTYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

for tlie address was printed in bold Roman letters, 
Augustus read it : " Mr. Michael Purdy, Bone Merchant, 
Whitechapel." 

A very impressive silence followed this discovery: for a 
moment Mr. Hunnybun' s face flushed a deep red, Mrs. Hun- 
nybun smiled, Miss Hunnybun tittered, and Mr. Augustus 
thrust his head out of the window to avoid laughing directly 
in his uncle's face ; but if any one on the railway bank had 
seen him they would have thought the poor young gen- 
tleman was going into convulsions, such were his efforts 
to suppress his merriment. But it was in vain ; and out at 
last his amusement burst in extraordinary snorts and blurts, 
ending at last in a hearty explosion of loud laughter. 
Mr. Hunnybun poked him with his stick, saying " If you 
must laugh at your uncle's take-in, do it openly, my boy ! 
Don't be afraid ! Give it way, or you may break a blood- 
vessel, and we may want a doctor where there is not one to 
be had ; besides it is very expensive mending damaged boys!" 

"Excuse me, uncle," said Augustus, now joined by his 
sister, who had been laughing into her handkerchief till 
she was crying quite as much; "excuse me, uncle," said 
the young man, " but it really is so rich, so very English:" and 
off he went again, Mr. and Mrs. Hunnybun and the 
children all joining. " Truly, uncle," said Augustus, first 
recovering himself, " did you say that he was English bone 
and muscle !" 

"Hang the fellow!" said Mr. Hunnybun: "with his 
Pisa'r and his Veeniss one might have known that he was 
a cockney ; but who the deuce could imagine a man travel- 
ling from "Whitechapel all over the world collecting bones !" 

" Oh, no doubt," said Augustus, " these farmers manure 
their fields with the bones of half the heroes of Europe. 
Alexander's dust went to stop abeer-barrel; why notMoreau's 
and Lannes' go to feed a turnip or a goodly beet-root ?" 

"Might I have that card?" said the young farmer, 
eagerly. " I wish I had known that he was a bone-merchant ; 
I buy tons of bones every year, and I might have picked up 
something useful out of him." 

Mr. Hunnybun handed him the card, which the other 
slipped into his waistcoat pocket. The train again stopped, 
and the young farmer left the carriage. 



THE HTTNNYBTTNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 375 

This adventure furnished joke and laughter till the party 
found themselves approaching the Humber. " Three o'clock 
is the time of arrival, by the time-table," said Mr. Hnn- 
nybun ; " and here we are to a minute," he added, exhibiting 
his watch. " Capital line ! admirable travelling ! true 
Eng " — he would have added, English travelling; but- 
subjoined, " True to a second ! capital line." 

Our party were steaming across the Humber : Mr. 
Hunnybun protested that he thought he was arriving at 
Ostend instead of an English sea-port— he was going to 
say, but the bone-merchant flashed on him, and he merely 
said Hull. Mrs. Hunnybun acquiesced in the likeness. 

On taking their seats at the Hull station, they found 
sitting in a corner, not another "Whitechapel traveller, but 
a tall young man, in grey paletot, and brown wide-awake, 
of a very intelligent and pleasing appearance. He was in 
fact handsome, and certainly well-bred. Mr. Hunnybun 
said to himself, "Very English !" but he did not articulate it. 
The gentleman was reading the Times, but the Bradshaw's 
Guide of the Hunnybuns being missing, he very politely 
offered his, at the same time opening the map to show the 
places through which the line passed. Conversation 
commenced, and became very sociable, and it was soon 
evident that the beauty of Miss Hunnybun was not with- 
out its effects on the young man. He made himself very 
agreeable, and as he knew every place right and left, told 
them all about the proprietors, and the historic events which 
had occurred there, as well as how the crops were, what were 
the rents, and such matters. 

By the time they reached Eiley they were the best 
friends imaginable. The stranger regretted extremely that 
he was going on to Scarborough ; and they parted at the 
Eiley Station, with many wishes of soon meeting again. 

"Eor the Eoyal Hotel?" Eor Eoord's Hotel, sir?" 
asked a lot of eager fellows with cards in their hands. 

" For the very best hotel in the place," said Mr. 
Hunnybun. 

" Here you are, sir ; very first hotel in the place," said 
half-a-dozen different voices at once. 

" Omnibus, sir, will take you and your luggage to the 
first hotel, sir." 



8715 THE HCUSTBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

Mr. Hunnybun motioned to his party to get into the 
omnibus, and soon all the packages were piled on it, while 
Augustus ran to get the shabby Skye-terrier, the walking 
door-mat, called " Clouds "because he came out oiSkye, from 
his box ; and away they all posted for Filey. 

" Now for a rural spot !" said Mr. Hunnybun, rubbing his 
hands as if in expectation of unusual enjoyment : " my friend 
Potts, who was here some years ago, says it is the most 
rural of watering-places on all the north coast " 

Involuntarily all turned their heads and gazed out of the 
window. "Rural!" exclaimed Angela: "why surely this 
cannot be the place !" They saw a flat plain without a tree, 
on which stood some great piles of buildings, large, upright, 
and somewhat chaotic, as if they were a part of a shabby- 
London suburb, conveyed hither for the accommodation of 
Eiley visitors. Nothing could look less rural. There were 
terraces of three-storied houses, quite of a town-fashion, 
ending as if other terraces were to connect them, with 
some general design as yet undeveloped to the stranger's 
eye. Terraces these, some with two or three stories 
inhabited, and all the rest staring vacantly out of their 
untenanted windows. They whirled past a great hotel, 
fit for Brighton or Cheltenham, but did not stop. 

" What !" said Mr. Hunnybun; "is there another first- 
rate hotel ?'.' They went round and round in the most 
extraordinary manner, flourishing about, now among 
buildings, and now among dusty lanes, till finally they 
drew up in the street of a little fishing-village at a 
commercial-looking inn. 

" "Where are we ?" asked Mr. Hunnybun. 

" And is this the best hotel ?" 

" The very best, sir ; capital house ; walk in, sir." 

The Hunnybuns soon found themselves in a good upper 
room which looked out on the humble street, along which 
numbers of blue-garbed fishermen, and women evidently of 
their kinship, were passing to and fro. It was not very 
fashionable, nor very rural. 

" That omnibus has brought us from the first-rate hotels, 
I fancy," said Mr. Hunnybun to the waiter. 

" Yery sorry, sir," replied the man, " but the house is 
full, all full, every corner of it : master himself has just 
given up his bed to a lady and gentleman with their 



THE HTTKNTBirXS AT THE &EA-SIBE. 377 

children, and goes out to sleep. But we will get you all 
good beds out, sir." 

" Out /" repeated Mr. Hunnybun, " that won't do ; we 
must be off and seek for lodgings. " 

" Filey is very full, sir," said the waiter ; "people are at 
their wits' ends for lodgings : don't know, sir, where you'll 
find any." 

The Hunnybun family stared aghast. They felt the 
desolation of a- group of orphans. "What a- feeling that is 
of being houseless and homeless ! 

" Lord Lobster is going to-day from the Crescent, No. 5," 
said a rather slatternly boy who came in with the dinner, 
addressing the waiter. 

" Is he ?" said the waiter, "then run you and say a family 
is coming to look at the lodgings : good lodgings, sir, those 
at No. 5>" added he, addressing Mr. Hunnybun. 

"Thank you!" said Mr. Hunnybun, evidently much 
relieved by the hope of having again a roof over his head. 

The boy came back. All right ! Lord Lobster was gone 
and the rooms at liberty, but might not be so in half an 
hour. Off went the Hunnybuns, led by the slatternly boy, 
and found a fine airy suite of rooms,, giving a splendid view 
of the sea, and only five guineas a week. Eive guineas ! 
"Why such lodgings could be had in London for half that 
price : but then Filey was so rural, and all the world was 
coming to it t Mr. Hunnybun closed the bargain, threw 
himself into an easy chair, and felt himself no longer a home* 
less man. 

Lord Lobster was but that moment gone ; and as it was 
still day-light, away w^nt the Hunnybuns to take a survey 
of the celebrated bay ; and truly it was glorious. Wide 
spread the waters of the sea, glittering in the descending 
sun. To the right stretched the long line of chalk cliffs to 
the distant point of Flamborough Head, where the tower of 
the lighthouse and fleet of fishing-boats gleamed out white 
in the western light. Above these cliffs, especially above 
those nearer and bolder ones, the Speeton cliffs stretched 
away to the right ; green uplands, destitute of trees, except 
where the dark woods of Hunmanby stood somewhat more 
inland. To the left a high point of land ran out far into 
the sea, forming the bay ; and beyond it the celebrated 



378 THE HUNNTBUNS AT THE SEA- SIDE. 

" Filey-bridge," a mass of savage rocks, appearing only 
above the water at low tide, ran out again far into the 
ocean. Then the white spray of the surf beating over 
those rocks might be seen tossed high in the air. 

Below the admiring spectators, our Hunnybun friends, 
at the foot of the fine natural terrace on which they stood, 
stretched the firm, clean, solid sands, on which the incom- 
ing tide was rolling solemnly, and scores of gay people 
were walking or riding to and fro; some pacing quietly 
aiong in well-dressed groups, others in the loose deshabille 
quite allowable for the sea-side. There were nurses with 
troops of handsomely-dressed children, armed with wooden 
spades, and cavalcades of young ladies and gentlemen canter- 
ing on the level sands that stretched for miles. On the water 
lay a whole fleet of fishing-boats ; some of them were 
already departing for the night's fishing ; and the wreck 
of a collier close to the shore gave to the animated scene 
a touch of the picturesque. 

" Well!" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun, "I don't find much 
rurality here ; but this is a grand sight. "We shall like it, 
I think; eh, my dears'?" 

" Eh, immensely !" exclaimed the party. Augustus was 
on fire to have Angela galloping with him over these fa- 
mous sands. Quintus and Mira were seized with a sud- 
den desire for wooden spades. Mrs. Hunnybun expressed 
her determination to indulge her passion lor fish, by try- 
ing every scaly creature that came into port; and down 
they went through the winding paths and young planta- 
tions, furnished with seats, where the sea prospect and the 
sea breezes might be enjoyed ; and forth they issued on the 
strand amongst the throng of visitors and walkers — of fisher- 
men carrying cart-loads of nets to their boats, and others 
wheeling their boats to the water on the pairs of wheels 
prepared for the purpose, and dogs of all sorts and sizes, 
and the usual accompaniments of cods'-heads and dog-fish, 
giving their character to the sands. 

At nine o'clock the Hunnybuns returned delighted to 
the inn, solacing their imagination with a delicious tea, and 
then " flitting" to their lodgings. But mortal hopes are 
still fallacious : the room which they had left empty, except 
of wine-glasses and the waiter, was now occupied with a 




J^iyu^n^m^/y 



wc^s-jtUar. 



THE HUNNTBTJKS AT THE SEA-6IDE. 379 

jolly crowd of " trippers" — thanks to the railways for a new 
term — who were enjoying a supper like a dinner, with 
glasses of foaming "Timothy," and the projection of pipes 
and port after it. 

The Hunnybuns blessed their stars that they had a roof 
awaiting them, and trudged off with a truck laden w T ith 
portmanteaus, band-boxes, carpet bags, great-coats and 
cloaks, and in ten minutes were at home in their pleasant 
rooms on the cliff, tha tea-urn steaming on the table, and 
a thousand plans of the morrow's pleasure and excursions 
in their heads ; and so, good night ! 



> I 






CHAPTEB II. 



HOW THE HUNNYBTTN8 ENJOY THEMSELVES ; AND WHAT HAPPENED TO 
Mil. HUNNYBUN AT THE EMPEBOB'S BATH. 

A splendid morning greeted the Hunnybun family. A3 
they gazed out of their windows, the sun was flashing on 
the living waters of the bay ; numbers of fishing-boats, with 
tawny sails, were resting like sea-butterflies on the waves, 
and already the bathing-machines were in operation, carry- 
ing the bathers out into the snowy surge ; fishermen, who 
had brought in their cargoes in the early morning, were 
spreading their nets to dry on the green slopes between the 
cliff and the shore. 

After a refreshing bathe, our friends proceeded to explore 
the neighbourhood. The high promontory between the open 
sea and the bay, and the distant bridge where the white 
spray was still leaping, attracted them most strongly. 
Thitherward they bent their course. The children ran along 
the edge of the waters that discharged their billows on the 
solid smooth sands like regular cannon-shot, or curling along 
at a rapid rate, resembled a running fire of musketry. It 
was difficult to prevent Quintus and Mira from rushing into 
the water, as it spread itself, with each dissolving wave, over 
the sands ; old Clouds barked vociferously, as if he recog- 
nised his old acquaintance, the sea, as it had been familiar 
to his canine youth in the Isle of Skye. Now, the children 
were calling in clamorous exultation at the discovery of little 
crabs left amongst the fucus-covered rocks, and now won- 
dering at some odd fish left on the beach. 

Anon the party approached the cliffs, which at the bottom 
consisted of a rude stratum of sand-stone, on which were piled 
mountains of earth which the sea in tempests and the rain 
from above had scored and scooped out with spires and 
pinnacles, precisely as Banvard's panorama shows on the 



THE HUNHTBUBTS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 381 

banks of the Missouri. At their feet lay huge masses which 
the waters continually bring down, and which the waves are 
continually assailing and dissolving. 

A foot-path leading over the hill led them to the top of 
the promontory covered with the finest green sward, and 
giving a view of the open ocean. To the right lay distant 
Elambro' Head ; to the left Scarborough, with its castle on 
its bold lofty headland, and the mass of red-tiled houses 
lying clear as if only some half-mile distant. But on the 
sunny sea vast numbers of vessels stretched from horizon to 
horizon, — all in fact traversing that great marine highway 
from Scotland to London which is perpetually crowded with 
a nation's traffic : merchant vessels ; whole fleets of colliers 
bearing coals from Newcastle to the metropolis, or returning 
for more ; steamers bravely bearing onwards, and leaving 
their long lines of smoke behind them ; with the white sails 
of almost myriads of those butterflies of the ocean, fishing 
cobbles, gleaming bright and snowy on all parts, near and 
remote, of the ocean plain. 

But great as was this view, the one directly under them 
w.as not less impressive. There the sea was raging against 
the rocks which rose to a considerable altitude. North and 
south extended the jagged and indented line of precipitous 
cliffs, rent and ravaged by the storms of ages. A narrow 
neck of land ran out just before them, to which they ad- 
vanced, and stood aloft, as it were, in the centre of this really 
sublime scene. On one hand the sea was boiling and 
sweeping in milky whiteness through a great cavern ; on the 
other hand rushing like an assailing army into a circular 
abyss, which it had worn in the precipitous cliffs, and leaping 
all foam on the huge ledges of projecting rocks, and plunging 
back in fiiry into the boiling deep. The whole mass of 
waters was in a motion like some vast and restless living 
thing, swelling, eddying, and moaning with a wild melan- 
choly, or thundering as with a thousand cannon on the dark 
yellow walls of cavernous rock. 

All felt the grandeur of the scene in silence. Northward 
stretched headland after headland to near Whitby. The 
gulls soared midway between them and the surface of the 
sea, with their wild cries, and vessels descried only by the glass 



382 THE HUNNYBlTFiTS AT THE SEA- SIDE. 

showed far eastward, telling of the distant shore of Denmark, 
towards which they were probably bound. 

" Splendid !" said Mr. Hunnybun, first breaking the 
silence ; " I did not suspect anything so magnificent here. 
Potts was right : this is what I dare say he called rural. 
Well, it is worth coming all this way to see." 

Again leaving the heights they proceeded along the shore 
to the so-called bridge, which no less excited their wonder. 

It was a long stretch of rocks, against which the great 
ocean to the left had been smiting its thundering billows 
and tossing the spray. Ledge below ledge descended on 
that side over which the green waters came foaming and 
foaming, and on fhe right the rocks shelved down into the 
quiet bay, amid masses of huge stones covered with sea- 
weeds. The solid rock over which they walked was worn 
and honeycombed by the action of the sea, and in every 
hole was a crimson sea-anemone. Anon they came to a chaos 
of vast stones which had been hurled one upon another 
by the giant might of the tempestuous ocean ; and having 
clambered over, they found themselves amid a wild scene of 
tossing and resounding waters and desolate crags, which 
would have reminded them of scenes in the "Western Isles, 
if they had ever been there. Then wild-looking fishermen 
were hunting crabs among the stones, gentlemen were 
fishing, and aften pulling out such fish as excited the pis- 
catory propensities of Augustus, and ladies, followed by men 
with hammers and baskets, were collecting specimens of 
rocks and sea-weed. 

" Capital idea," thought Mr. Hunnybun, as he saw the 
hammers : " I will have one, and geologize ; this is just the 
spot for it." They turned back, and went behind the rocks, 
passing sundry pleasant nooks of rock where young ladies 
were seated with their crochet-work and even embroidery, 
and looking as though they were very industrious indeed, 
having one eye employed on the sublime and the other on 
the needle. 

Down they went from one huge ledge to another beneath 
frowning crags, and with the ocean roaring below them as if 
it were eager to swallow them up — so, at least, it seemed 
to the Hunnybuns. Anon they came to a grand amphi- 



THE HTnOTBTTN-S AT THE SEA-STDE. 383 

theatre in the rocks, which had been hewn out by the waves 
of centuries. In front, the sea boiled vehemently, and flung 
its foaming waters on the high ledges of the crags into the 
hollow of this semicircular space, till they accumulated into a 
great pool which some one had denominated the " Emperor's 
Bath." 

At this moment, Mr. Hunnybun's attention was caught 
by the words of a stout gentleman with a brown wide-awake, 
and a Scotch plaid on -his shoulders, who was pointing out 
to those about him a fossil tree embedded in the rock. 
" Capital 1" thought Mr. Hunnybun to himself ; " fine subject 
for my hammer." At the same moment Angela's counte- 
nance brightened, and the tall gentleman in the grey coat, 
who had travelled with them from Hull, stood before them, 
evidently greatly delighted at thus meeting with her. 

Mr. Lockwood, as a friend who was with him called him, 
was come over from Scarborough for a day's stroll about 
Filey. There was a deal of beauty in its shores, he said, 
his eyes being fixed on Angela's face at the moment. It 
was singular, perhaps, that Angela should blush because 
there were beauties at Filey ; but so she did, and looked very 
intently at the fossil tree. 

Mr. Lockwood, who had the power of making himself 
agreeable to all the Hunnybuns, was invited to lunch with 
them. They retraced their steps towards the village, — 
Mr. Hunnybun facetiously observing that if the surge was 
as creamy as it looked, he should certainly have a fine supply 
of sea-butter by the time he reached home, as he felt it 
churning in his boots. 

That day. after luncheon, Angela made the discovery that 
she had forgotten her riding-hat ; and Augustus declared that 
she must have a black felt hat with a short feather — nothing- 
was so becoming to a lady : and being assured by Mr. Lock- 
wood that the shops were excellent in Scarborough, the 
brother and sister, accompanied by that gentleman, set off 
at once to make the purchase, and for other important 
objects. They returned enraptured with Scarborough. Such 
a picturesque locality ! such a lively little town, such 
capital shops ! as Mr. Lockwood had said. Such crowds of 
gay people, and such horses and carriages for traversing tne 



381 TEE KTJKNTBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE 

strand and the neighbourhood. They were impatient for 
their uncle and aunt to remove immediately. 

Mr. Hunnybun begged them to consider, however, that 
they had taken the lodgings for a week, and that he was 
going to geologize the cliff and bridge. He had been already 
making observations with his pocket-compass on the head- 
land, and was convinced that he had discovered a most valu- 
able iron-mine. Besides, he had found that though Eiley 
had ceased to be rural, it was become exceedingly aristo- 
cratic. The nobility fought shy of Scarborough, now that 
" tripping" had come into vogue from the manufacturing 
towns. Did they know that there were some dozens 
of nobility there, besides dignified clergy, and even the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer ? 

All this made a suitable impression on the minds of 
Augustus and Angela, although Mr. Hunnybun assured 
them that they were expected to pay something for the 
honour. He said that he himself had had to wait that 
morning for an hour before he could get one of the six 
bathing machines ; for when he was going to step into one, 
he was told that it was already engaged by my Lady Sea- 
crabb ; of course he immediately gave precedence to so distin- 
guished a personage, and expressed his willingness to wait 
for the next vacancy ; but the Marchioness of Mackrell 
was about to take her plunge, and the next unoccupied 
machine would be required for her son, the young Lord 
Prawn, who, attended by his valet, was already in sight on 
the sands. No way daunted, Mr. Hunnybun waited 
patiently, and was then told he must yield his turn to the 
Honourable Misses Whiting, who were seen driving up in a 
pony chaise. " At this," said Mr. Hunnybun " I quite lost 
my patience ; and planting myself firmly on the steps of the 
empty machine, declared that if the Duke of Devildom or 
the Baroness Beelzebub were coming to bathe, I would have 
my turn ; at which the bathing-woman, the fine servants, 
and loungers all round, set me down for a wicked and most 
irate old fellow." 

Mrs. Hunnybun felt quite shocked at her husband's con- 
fession : but it was no use speaking to him when his blood 
was once up : so they got their supper. They had all most 



THE HTJJTNTETJ^S AT THE SEA-SIDE. 385 

astounding appetites, and prepared for a gay day on the 
morrow. 

The morrow arose. After breakfast the horses appeared 
at the door for Augustus and Angela's ride ; Augustus, in a 
coat of the latest fashion, Oxonian, Albert, or whatever it 
might be called, and a russet- coloured felt hat, and Angela in 
her handsome habit, the new black hat and its little feather and 
smart blue veil, made a gallant appearance, and so cantered 
off. At the end of the village they most singularly again 
encountered Mr. Lockwood, also on horseback, who declared 
that so great was his admiration of the beauties of Filey, 
that he could not resist another day's pleasure there. How 
he happened to be there so early, and on horseback too, we 
cannot explain. It was, no doubt, one of those wonderful 
coincidences that fall out in this world. All we know is 
that the three in great gaiety of spirit cantered along the 
green lane towards the wooded uplands of Hunmanby, the 
abode of the gallant Admiral Mitford. 

While they were enjoying themselves in that direction, 
Mr. Hunny bun, with his hammer in his hand, a large pouch 
slung by his side, and his compass in bis pocket, set forth 
for a geological and exploratory ramble towards the foreland 
and bridge, leaving Mrs. Hunnybun to amuse herself by 
sitting on the airy seats in the plantation, to pick up 
acquaintance with elderly ladies, and to watch the digging 
and delving operations of the children od the sands below. 

The weather was bright and warm : the young people 
came home all jollity, and full of talk of the finely wooded 
old place of Hunmanby, which formerly belonged to Mr. 
Osbaldiston, and still looked, with its huge stable-yards and 
paddocks hemmed in by thick tall hedges, like an old haunt 
of the sportsman and lover of the turf. The children were 
equally full of their canals and pits, and lakes and watery- 
mazes, which they had been constructing to their great 
delight, and which, to their still greater delight, they had 
seen the advancing tide level and sweep away ; — but no Mr. 
Hunnybun presented himself at luncheon. 

" Where can he be ?" exclaimed Angela. 

" Your uncle," said Mrs. Hunnybun, very quietly, " de- 
sired us not to wait for him, or to trouble ourselves about 

c c 



386 THE HTLNTSTBTTNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

him, as he meant to ramble along at his leisure, and look 
about him to his heart's content." 

At five o'clock, when, after another ride, the young 
people returned home, they found Mrs. Hunnybun in a great 
consternation : Mr. Hunnybun had not returned. She had 
taken a carriage and driven out with the children, hoping to 
meet with her husband by the way, and bring him back 
with her to dinner. But she neither met with him, nor 
found him at home ; and as she was of a very anxious turn 
of mind, that easily took alarm, and conjured up the most 
direful apparitions of sudden death and frightful accident, 
she hurried out over the heights towards the spa, and down 
the heights towards the bridge, as far as she could go for 
the tide, which was now high, eagerly inquiring from every 
one whether they had seen a short stout gentleman answer- 
ing to Mr. Hunnybun' s description. But no one could give 
information, and the anxiety of the good lady increased pro- 
portionately. 

The children ran hither and thither. On the high green 
foreland they met an old coast-guard, who had seen their 
grandfather. 

Mrs. Hunnybun hurried forward, and the man came so- 
lemnly to meet her. 

" You have seen Mr. Hunnybun, have you, my good 
man ?" asked she. 

" Yes, ma'am ; I saw a stout old gentleman about noon on 
the hill there, with a hammer and a heavy bag of stones. 
"Was he a little — ?" said the man, significantly, and touched 
his head. 

" A little what ?" asked Mrs. Hunnybun, half-compre- 
hending his meaning, and offended by it. " A little what ?" 

" Oh, no offence, ma'am," said the grave man with his 
spying-glass in his hand. " I only thought he might have 
a screw loose, and was apt to wander away." 

" "Wandered away !" repeated Mrs. Hunnybun, a horrible 
idea of sudden insanity having seized on her husband now 
suggesting itself. " "Wandered away ! "What can make you 
think of such a thing ?" 

" "Well," said the man, " only because the old gentleman 
called me to him, and told me he had made a discovery which 



THE HUNTS YBITKS A.T THE SEA-SIDE. 387 

would be the making of Filey. He appeared very serious 
about it, and stared at a little pocket-compass which he had 
in his hand. When I asked him what it was, he said it was 
an iron mine on the very spot where we stood." 

" Grood heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Hunnybun; " he was 
talking of an iron mine before he went out." 

"He said," continued the man, "that he was sure there 
was an iron mine, which was immensely rich, in this hill ; 
' for look,' said he, pointing to the pocket- compass in his 
hand, 'the needle varies. There stands your church, due 
east and west ; see how the needle varies to the east.' I 
looked, and it really was so ; but as I never heard that there 
was iron in this hill, I said he had better try it a good way 
off. We went a good way off; but the needle did just the 
same. ' There it is,' said the old gentleman, ' this hill is a 
mass of iron-stone ; it will be worth millions of money. The 
hill is full of iron ; it lies in lumps like houses !' Just be so 
good as to lend me the compass a minute, says I to the old 
gentleman ; and when it was in my hand, it was true as 
steel. ' That's wonderful,' says the old gentleman ; ' what 
can it mean ?' It seems, says I, that you have a steel snuff- 
box, or something of that sort, about you. ' Nothing of that 
sort,' says the old gentleman ; ' nothing of that sort, I assure 
you ;' and with that he clapped his hands on his sides, and 
then thrust them into his trowsers' pockets, and out he 
pulled a big bunch of keys. ' Lord bless me !' he exclaimed, 
' that's it. "What a fool I must be !' And with that he fell 
a-laughing." 

The old guard-man laughed at the recollection, and then 
added, " And after that he went down to the shore to look 
after what he called ' fossil cheeses.' " 

" Eossil cheeses !" repeated Mrs. Hunnybun, half offended 
at the man's manner ; " fossil tree, you mean. I know that 
my husband is interested about the fossil tree : no doubt he 
is there ; no doubt he is below the rocks !" 

" Impossible, ma'am," said the man. " When the tide is 
up there is no footing there." 

" He may have forgotten himself," said Mrs. Hunnybun, 
in alarm ; " he may be drowned. Oh, good heavens !" 

He does forget himself, then, thought the man, who 
ntver lost*the idea of Mr. Hunnybun having a screw loose; 



388 THE HUNNYBTJNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

and then, being touched by the evident anxiety of Mrs. 
Hunnybun, added, "Bat he may have rambled 'along the 
cliff, past the spa, and so back by the fields, ma'am. You'll 
most likely find him already at home. I'll go over the cliff, 
ma'am, and down the shore, and make inquiries." 

Mrs. Hunnybun thanked him, promised him a handsome 
reward, and giving him their address, hastened home, hop- 
ing to find her husband ; but he was not there. And now 
came Augustus and Angela, and great was the consternation 
which their aunt's information caused. Away went Augus- 
tus ; nor would Angela be kept back. "Without stopping to 
change her riding-dres.s, but merely gathering her long 
skirts about her, she anxiously followed her brother ; and, 
while terrified at his rashness, followed him from one airy 
height to another, listening eagerly for some reply to his 
shouts. There was no reply, except from the booming 
waves and the screaming gulls. The wind had risen strongly, 
and the sea dashed with tremendous force against the crags. 

The anxiety of the young people became intense. Augus- 
tus shouted his uncle's name. At length — could it be ? — he 
thought he heard a faint reply. He called again : he was 
certain he heard an answering voice. It was down amid 
the thunder of the winds and waves. He sprang down the 
steep and crumbling descent, Angela crying after him to 
come back, or he would be dashed to pieces. Downward, 
however, he sprang, until he was seen traversing a wild pro- 
jection of loose crags, that, shattered by tempests, and dis- 
located by the frosts of last winter, stood like a tower above 
the ocean. 

Here Augustus paused for a moment, and a voice reached 
him from below, crying, " Help, help, for G-od's sake !" He 
knew it was his uncle, and he shouted back with all his 
might, " Coming, uncle, coming !" 

How he was to get down there, however, was not so clear ; 
he therefore once more sprang upward, and, declaring what 
he had seen and heard, asked from several people who were 
now assembled at this point what was to be done ? There 
was nothing to be done, they said : there was no getting 
him up there, nor was there much danger where he was, as 
the water, except in spring-tides, did not fill the cave more 
than mid-leg deep. In two hours the water would be low 



THE HTJKNTBTJ2TS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 389 

enough for him to get round by the shore. " Two hours !" 
exclaimed Augustus : " the very terror would kill him. We 
must have ropes, and pull him up." 

Angela, half wild with terror, repeated her brother's 
words ; and a handsome reward was now offered to all who 
aided in placing the old gentleman safely on the hill. The 
idea of reward gave energy to every frame ; ropes were soon 
brought, and three or four stout fellows went down with 
Augustus on the rock, hallooing with voices that seemed to 
drive through the very din of winds and waves, and were 
speedily answered by the fluttering of a white flag from 
below. 

" Poor old gentleman ! he is there, sure enough," said 
they ; and they bawled another cheer to him stentoriously. 
Augustus proposed, as he was light and nimble, that they 
should put a rope round him and let him down. This was 
done ; and he sprang from crag to crag with the agility of a 
wild chamois. Presently, he came low enough to descry 
the lower part of the cave, and saw at once that it was the 
Emperor's. There stood his uncle, looking very pale and 
excited, with his handkerchief tied to the end of his stick, 
and still waving it frantically. The water had risen 
far higher than he expected, and now filled three-fourths 
of the cave. Mr. Hunnybun had climbed to a chaos of 
recently precipitated masses, close to the pile where Augus- 
tus stood. "Bravo, uncle!" said Augustus. " Courage! 
there's plenty of help : we will have you up in a few 
minutes." 

"God be praised !" groaned Mr. Hunnybun, de profundis. 
Augustus was speedily down with him, the old man clutch- 
ing him and clasping him in his arms, as if he were actually 
in the agony of drowning. For three hours had he been 
confined in that terrible hollow of the rocks ; the sea every 
minute coming nearer and nearer, and growling and hissing, 
and leaping ravenously and with a terrible din towards him, 
as if it were determined to have him and sweep him into its 
raging depths. 

Augustus soon had the rope safe round his bulky person ; 
and pointing out to him how easily he might lay hold on 
certain stones, and set his feet on certain ledges, they 
shouted amain, and the rope began to draw tight. But it 



8f>0 THE HUNZTS BTJlSrs AT THE SEA-STDE. 

was a desperate undertaking for poor Mr. Hunnybun ; and 
nothing but the terror of the sea below could compel him 
to encounter the terrors of the steep and shattered rocks 
above. Mr. Hunnybun was no trifling weight, and for 
these forty years had been accustomed to climb nothing 
more difficult than a staircase, well carpeted, and supported 
by a good mahogany handrail. Here it was a different 
matter. The rocks were almost perpendicular ; and what 
was worse, they were loose ; and as the old gentleman took 
hold of one, it toppled down headlong, and dashed down 
into the foaming churning sea. Mr. Hunnybun groaned, 
and would have toppled down after it, but for the rope and 
the stout pullers above, whose voices, now chiming in chorus, 
cheered loudly ; while Augustus pushed behind, and encou- 
raged the old gentleman with his voice. But spite of all 
this, Mr. Hunnybun' s courage and strength seemed going ; 
his legs trembled violently ; his hands convulsively clutched 
the rocks ; another moment and he would have swung 
loose, and his ponderous weight, overpowering the men 
above, or cutting the rope on the sharp edge of the rock, he 
would have gone down to the furious element below. But 
at that moment a young active form came down the rock, 
and, like a mountain-goat, flung a strong arm round Mr. 
Hunnybun, singing out to the fellows above to hawl away ; 
and up he went as if by magic. It was Mr. "Walter Lock- 
wood. The most fortunate chance had brought him again 
to the Hunnybuns ; and this time to the rescue. Augustus 
followed like a squirrel ; and in an amazingly short space of 
time they all stood on the platform of rocks, safe and sound. 
As regards the standing, however, we must except Mr. Hun- 
nybun himself, who had fainted, and lay prostrate on the 
rocky floor ; but he was safe : Angela saw that from the 
green height above where she stood, and saw also who was 
the brave and strong helper in need. And now the brawny 
fellows who had pulled at the rope, taking the old gentle- 
man in their arms, carried him up tne slope, and laid him 
on the green sward as on a bed. 

Angela, without stopping to express her gratitude to 
Lockwood, flung herself on her knees by her uncle, fearing 
that he was dead ; but he very soon recovered in the fresh 
breezy air, and then, thanking Glod in the first place for his 



THE HrX^YBr^S AT THE SEA-SIPE. 891 

deliverance, in the second lie seized a hand of each of the 
young men, and, without speaking, gave them snck an ener- 
getic gripe, as left no doubt in their minds as to his undi- 
minished vitality. His story was soon told : he had been 
hammering away, first at the fossil tree, and then at the 
hard round stones embedded here and there in the sand- 
stone, and which, in his geological ignorance, he had mis- 
taken for fossil Dutch cheeses ; when, to his horror, he per- 
ceived that the tide was now so high as to cut off all escape. 
Of this terror and agitation some idea may be formed, espe- 
cially as those desperate waves came higher and higher, and 
he was in no state of such calmness as to calculate how high 
they would rise : one thing he clearly saw, no boat could 
approach the surf to bring him off. 

.For three mortal horns he had seen them advancing, and 
had exhausted all the power of shouting and frantic waving 
of his handkerchief, to make some one hear or see. His bag 
was well loaded with stones, including a great piece of the 
fossil tree ; but, on reaching the other side of the cliff, he 
flung his bag and his hammer, together with his new " Geo- 
logist's Yade Mecum," into the sea, vowing henceforth 
eternal renunciation of all geological researches. 

Joyful was his welcome home : nor did home ever seem 
so sweet to him before. "Welcome, too, was "Walter Lock- 
wood. The old gentleman, and good Mrs. Hunnybun, with 
tears in her eyes, shook him by the hand over and over 
again ; and, of course, there was nothing for it but he must 
stay and dine with them. 



CHAPTER III. 



MR. HUNNTBUlir HAVING DONE WITH PHILOSOPHY AND SCIENCE, HAS 
A VARIETY OF ADVENTURES. 

Mr. HuNNYBUisr had done with philosophy : he determined 
to be " merry and wise," as the easiest way of wisdom. He 
walked about, therefore, with his grand-children on the shore, 
full of joke and playfulness ; assisted them in making 
mounds and canals in the sands, and building towers with 
feathers stuck in the top by way of flags ; and enjoying as 
much as they did seeing the great sea come up and assault 
them, and lay them waste. He asked little boys and girls 
whether they were married, much to their astonishment, and 
the amusement of Quintus and Mira, who saw the blank 
looks, especially of one little fellow of. about ten, who said 
simply, " No, he was not married ; but his mother and father 
were." Mr. Hunnybun no less amused his grand-children 
by answering a group of little children who asked him what 
o'clock it was, that he did not carry a clock about with him ; 
ho could only tell them what o' watch it was, which would 
perhaps do till they got home. 

Our jolly old friend, by these means, got precisely the 
same, character that he haJ got before amongst the coast- 
guard : " The funny old gentleman who was rather queer." 

In his walks in quest of his friend Potts' ruralities, Mr. 
Hunnybun found himself at the stile, leading into a green 
field, where a bull was standing, looking very serious. Not 
choosing to dispute the passage with so formidable a cha- 
racter, Mr. Hunnybun went round to the gate, and into the 
next field; but here finding himself considerably bewil- 
dered, he was about to retrace his steps, when in the grass 
he saw a girl on her hands and knees, as if grazing. Ap- 
proaching to learn farther of this phenomenon, he found, to 
his surprise, a slender young trampling girl of apparently 
sixteen, with a quantity of cheap periodicals lying around 



THE HTJXNYBUjS t S AT THE SEA- SIDE. 893 

her, and herself deep in the study of one of them. Near 
to her also lay a basket of cotton-bans and tapes, and such 
small merchandise. 

" "What !" said Mr. Hunnybun, amazed at the march of 
educatiou, " do you people read ?" 

The girl looked up, startled from her eager perusal of 
the interesting sheet, and showing a shrewd face and pair 
of clear grey eyes, half shut, as if overpowered by the suu- 
shine, said, " Yes, sir ; why not ?" 

"Oh! I don't know why not," said Mr. Hunnybun; 
" I only wonder what school you can go to." 

" My father taught me, sir," said the girl. " He's a 
Scotchman, and a good scholar ; and he teaches me at night 
at the lodging-houses." 

" He does !" said Mr. Hunnybun ; " but where is he ?" 

" He is calling," said the girl. 

" Calling ? — how calling ?" 

" Groing round to the houses in Filey yonder." 

" Oh," said Mr. Hunnybun, " and your lather begs while 
you read love-stories ?" 

" Only just once in a while," said the girl. " I only just 
gave him the slip a few minutes, to finish a very interesting 
tale." 

"Lord bless me !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun ; "and so 
beggars read: and you can read, and still beg r" 

" Why, yes, sir ; but some how I've got such romantic 
notions into my head, I think I should be better without 
reading." 

" Romantic notions ! What sort of romantic notions ?" 

" Oh, — why, if I were a young man I should like to be 
a pirate, or something of that sort." 

" Good gracious !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun; "what do 
you read P" 

" The Family Herald, and Reynolds's Miscellany, and 
such like," replied she, holding up a mass of dirty papers, 
with dingy woodcuts, towards him. 

" Why, sir," said the girl, stroking old Clouds, who 
seemed to take greatly to her, " I like the life well enough ; 
we see the country, and have adventures — if we could always 
be sure of enough to pay our lodgings. That's the bore, 
sir; that's the thing that troubles us." 



391 THE HTTNNYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

" That troubles you," said Mr. Hunnybun, handing her 
sixpence. 

"Thank you, sir," said the girl, springing to her feet. 
" Ay, sir, that spoils all the romance." 

" Romance !" repeated Mr. Hunnybun. " G-ood gra- 
cious i what do you call romance ? But Lord bless me, how 
that dog seems to take to you: how is it ?" 

" Oh, sir," said the girl, "it's only a knack we have. I 
can 'tice any dog." 

" You can !' ' said Mr. Hunnybun. " But mind you don't 
'tice that dog; mind that, I say." 

" Not for the world, sir. I'm not an ungrateful wretch, 
sir," continued she, still patting old Clouds' head. 

" But what can be done for you ?" said Mr. Hunnybun, 
as if half speaking to himself. " Would not you like to 
leave this vagabond life ? Suppose you were educated for a 
lady's maid, or so ; you could still travel." 

" Yes, sir," said the girl; " but who would educate such 
a girl as me ?" 

" We must see ; we really must," said Mr. Hunnybun. 
" You'll be about Filey for a day or two ?" 

" Yes, sir," 

" Well, then, in the meantime," added he, " you must 
burn all your trashy novels, and read what is good and 
sound. There," said he, tearing a leaf out of his pocket 
memorandum-book, and writing something on it ; " take that 
to No. 5 in the Crescent, and they'll give you some really 
good publications, and let me see you to-morrow." 

" Yes, sir ; and God bless you, sir !" said the girl, taking 
the paper with a deep curtsey ; and Mr. Hunnybun went 
on his way, pondering on his scheme of benefit for this 
clever but wild offshoot of humanity — this nursling of the 
highways. 

" You gave that roll of Household Words, Chambers' 
Journal, and Ladies' Companion, to that poor girl ?" said 
Mr. Hunnybun, at dinner. 

"Yes," said Mrs. Hunnybun; "but why did you give 
them to that young tramp ?" 

" And your top-coat, sir," added the maid. 

" My top-coat !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun, starting as 
if a gun had gone off at his ear. 



THE HUKSTTBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 395 

" And your silk umbrella, sir," continued she. 

" My capital new silk umbrella, for which I paid a pound 
when I left London !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun. " She had 
nothing to do with them ; I never spoke of them." 

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Hunnybun; "you must have 
done so. The young huzzy said you were afraid of the 
rain." 

" My new top-coat ! my new silk umbrella !" again 
ejaculated Mr. Hunnybun, as though an abyss of wonder 
had opened at his feet. " But how could you give them to 
a beggar- wench without a written order from me ?" 

" But there was your order, my dear," said Mrs. Hunny- 
nybun, rising, and handing him the piece of paper which she 
had brought. On one side of the paper stood the order 
concerning the papers, and on the other, in Mr. Hunny- 
bun' s own undeniable hand- writing, " also a top-coat, and 
silk umbrella." 

Mr. Hunnybun, after a pause of blank astonishment, 
struck his forehead a hard slap with his open palm, and 
said slowly, " I see. I made that memorandum just before 
I left London, that I might remember to get these things. 
The artful witch." Mr. Hunnybun then related the whole 
story of the literary beggar-girl, and vowed he would hunt 
her out, and prosecute her. 

" Tou may hunt her, uncle," said Augustus ; " but catch- 
ing her — that's another thing." 

After dinner, Mr. Hunnybun sallied forth, taking all the 
young people with him ; they traversed all the streets of 
Filey, and made enquiries everywhere ; but to no purpose. 
The next morning Mr Hunnybun rose up early to bathe, 
and called Clouds to attend him, for Clouds and his master 
were inseparable — but no Clouds was to be found. "Where 
could he be ? He had lain, as usual, under Mr. Hunny- 
bun' s bed, and the maid had seen him walking in the gar- 
den soon after she was up ; and when, as usual, he had 
been sent down stairs by Mr. Hunnybun, to take his morn- 
ing walk ; but now he was nowhere to be seen. 

" That young tramping baggage has got him, sir, you may 
depend upon it," said the maid. " That sort of cattle, sir, 
have a knack of 'ticing away dogs. It's dangerous to have 
anything to do with them." » 



896 THE HUTS^TBUNS AT THE SEA- SIDE. 

Mr. Hunnybun knew she was right. " The wretch ! the 
gipsy ! the Jezebel!" exclaimed he ; " but I'll pursue her ;" 
and so saying he rushed out of the house with angry in- 
dignation. Mrs. Hunnybun, Angela, Augustus, Quintus, 
and Mira, all were full of trouble and vexation about the 
loss of old Clouds. Clouds ! why he was one of the family — 
slept in their bed-room, put his nose on everybody's feet 
that were set on the fender. Old Clouds gone ! Never was 
there such a lamentation. Mr. Hunnybun dispatched 
Augustus to Scarborough, to get placards printed, offering 
five pounds reward for the discovery of the thief. This 
done, in no placid mood, he descended to the shore to bathe, 
for he was a most indefatigable bather. As he went he 
looked on all sides, hoping still to see old Clouds some- 
where. 

Of the six bathing-machines, four were already out in the 
water, and Mr. Hunnybun, in a state of absence of mind, 
foaming at the villany of the romantic beggar-girl, and 
grieving over old Clouds, mechanically ascended the steps 
of the first of the two outstanding machines. The door 
obeyed his hand, and he was just stepping in, when a loud 
shriek startled him, and the door was banged back in his 
face. At the same moment loud cries saluted his ears from 
within ; there was a wild running and screaming of the two 
bathing-women. Mr. Hunnybun, in confusion, stepped back, 
forgot where he was, and the next moment was lying on the 
sands. 

" What does the gentleman mean ? there's a lady in 
there !" screamed the amphibious attendants of the machine. 
" Then why doesn't she hasp her door ?" fiercely demanded 
Mr. Hunnybun, as he gathered himself up, covered with wet 
sand, and with his towel under his arm. 

In an unlucky moment he had seen Mrs. Philiskirk, a 
buxom widow of apparently forty, whose acquaintance they 
had made in the Crescent, standingin thefirst act of disrobing. 
She had proceeded, however, no farther than to remove those 
rich and jetty locks which adorned her head, and which Mr. 
Hunnybun had so much admired, and which he said seemed 
to have defied the touch of time. Unlucky Mrs. Philiskirk ! 
she had forgotten to hasp her door, and she was discovered 
standing with her splendid locks in her hand instead of on 
her head ! 



THE mjtfNYBUB'S AT THE SEA.- SIDE. 397 

It was but a moment's glimpse, but it revealed a tale of 
years — a head of short grey hair and a face of fifty-five ! 
The shock had caused Mr. Hunnybun to step backwards. 
and a heavy fall backwards, into the sand. Such was the 
effect upon his sensitiveness, that he never stopped till he 
reached the railway station and was on his way to Scar- 
borough. Augustus was no little amazed to see his uncle 
issuing from the Scarborough station towards the town, as 
he himself, having executed his commission, was about to 
leave it. 

" Uncle !" exclaimed Augustus. 

" Nephew !" replied Mr. Hunirybun, looking fluttered and 
stern. " I've done with Filey !" "added he. " Tell them all 
at home to pack up, sacrifice the remainder of the week, and 
be here to night ; I'll have lodgings ready for them, and 
meet them by the last train." 

Augustus stood in astonishment. " "What's amiss?" ex- 
claimed he. 

" What's amiss !" repeated he, sharply ; " "Where's Clouds ? 
Is that not enough amiss ?" 

Mr. Hunnybun would not bear contradiction, hardly 
reason, when he was excited ; therefore, Augustus, merely 
saying to himself, "he is gone distracted about the dog!" 
rushed away at the sound of the bell to save the train. 

Mr. Hunnybun hastened to the Esplanade, and in less 
than ten minutes had engaged handsome apartments in that 
elevated and fashionable terrace. Somewhat soothed by 
this, he descended to have a walk to the Castle, when, having 
crossed the lofty bridge which unites the new to the old port 
of Scarborough, he saw a sight that seemed to carry him out 
of himself. It was no other than old Clouds, struggling and 
howling most furiously to escape from under the arm of a 
man who was sitting on a low rail by the road-side among 
a number of other such men, and a variety of dogs for sale. 

Clouds had seen his master, and was frantic ; his master 
had seen Clouds, and was just as frantic. He rushed like a 
whirlwind on the man, crying, "Fellow, let go that dog !" 
at the same time giving the man a tremendous thwack on 
the shoulders with his walking-cane. 

" "What's that for ?" said the man, grimly starting up and 
seizing Mr. Hunnybun by the collar. In a few minutes he 



398 THE HUNHTBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

found himself in the midst of a very miscellaneous crowd of 
people, all thrusting their eager faces into the circle, and 
the fellow with the dog crying, " "What's that for, old gentle- 
man ? What do yoti strike me for?" 

" What for !" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun, half choked with 
rage ; "for stealing my dog, that's what it's for !" 

" I steal your dog !" cried the fellow ; " I don't steal dogs 
— I buy them. I bought him last night, didn't I Huggal ? 
didn't I Walkshaw ?" 

" Yes, yes !" shouted these individuals, " Grave two guineas 
for him to an old blind beggar with a stiff arm." 

" That's true," cried another. " The blind' un said the dog 
was given him by a gentleman, but he wouldn't learn to 
lead him." 

" And his daughter led him," cried a third. 

"What sort of a daughter?" demanded Mr. Hunnybun, 
somewhat pacified ; old Clouds all this time plunging 
and whining about his knees. Three or four voices de- 
scribed with sufficient accuracy Mr. Hunnybun' s romantic 
beggar-maid; and declaring himself .convinced, he thrust 
three sovereigns into the man's hand, who looked at them 
for a second with considerable satisfaction, and then said, 
" But what's for the blow, sir ?" 

"For the blow? why," said Mr Hunnybun, "bring that 
young slip of Satan's , that beggar-girl to me, and I'll give 
you five more !" 

• With this a wonderful discussion arose among the men, 
and Mr. Hunnybun marched off forthwith to a shop, and 
secured old Clouds by a collar and chain, in which he 
perambulated the streets at his side. 

That evening, by the last train, Augustus and the grand- 
children duly appeared ; but no Mrs. Hunnybun or Angela, 
Mrs. Hunnybun declared it impossible to come till the 
morrow, as the week's clothes were with the laundress, and 
the packing could not be done ; and only begged of Mr. 
Hunnybun not to take on so about Clouds. 

Old Clouds was testifying that there was no need of that, 
by barking most vociferously all the way home before them. 

The children were delighted with their new lodgings, and 
with Scarborough altogether. Mrs. Hunnybun and Angela 
arrived early in the evening of the next day. " But what 



THE HUlJrjSTBTnS'S AT THE SEA-SIDE. 399 

could possess you, my dear," said Mrs. Huuhybun, "-to go 
off so abruptly ; there must be something in the air of Piley 
which turns people's heads, for, do you know, Mrs. Philis- 
kirk went off yesterday without saying good-by to me, nor 
leaving word where she was going. If you had been young 
people, I don't know what I should have thought." 

" Tou need not think I should ever run off with Mrs. 
Philiskirk," said Mr. Hunnybun, gruffly ; " I hope she has 
not come here." 

" Tou do !" said Mrs. Hunnybun, staring at her husband. 
""Why, Hunnybun, she's a very nice woman, and I'm sure 
you've said so a hundred times." 

" Not I!" said Mr. Hunnybun; and his conscience smote 
him at the same moment. He felt that he was doing her 
wrong, and that he ought to confess his awful blunder and 
be laughed at ; but he could not. 

" But there :'s Mrs. Philiskirk, I declare !" exclaimed 
Mrs. Hunnybun, as they were walking on the cliffs, the 
next evening. And there she was, sure enough, seated at 
her everlasting netting, at a window on the Esplanade, only 
three doors distant from their lodgings. All saw her, and 
Mrs. Hunnybun, saying she would go and call on her, 
turned towards the house : Mr. Hunnybun and the rest of 
the party walked homewards. 

"Well, what can have possessed Mrs. Philiskirk?" said 
Mrs. Hunnybun, coming in after them, with a face all 
wonder and vexation. " Do you know, she would not see 
me ! She sent word that she was not at home. What can it 
mean ?" 

" It means that she's a fool !" said Mr. Hunnybun, tartly ; 
and again his conscience gave him a desperate twinge. He 
knew he ought to confess and be laughed at. But he could 
not do it. 

In the morning Mrs. Hunnybun determined once more 
to see Mrs. Philiskirk, and to know what the matter really 
was. Therefore, when her husband and the young people 
had walked out, she called again to Mrs. Philiskirk' s lodg- 
ings, and was astonished to find she was gone. 

"It's quite certain, ma'am," said the woman of the house, 
seeing Mrs. Hunnybun look rather incredulous j " some- 



dOO THE HTnraTBUNS AT THE SEA.- SIDE. 

thing struck the lady suddenly, she paid for the week, and 
then went off in a cab." 

" But where to ?" asked Mrs. Hunnyhun. 

" She did not say," replied the woman. " She seemed 
very much put out about something. She said she could 
not stay ; and yet, but an hour before, had been praising 
the pleasantness of the apartments." 

Mrs. Hunnybun returned home fuller of wonder than 
ever. " They've had a quarrel, my husband and she," she 
said to herself ; " they've affronted one another ; it must be 
about politics, or the church. I should not wonder if Dr. 
Pusey is at the bottom of it." 

All were amazed when Mrs. Hunnybun related the new 
flight of Mrs. Philiskirk ; and Mr. Hunnybun, spite of his 
conscience, said, with a savage satisfaction, " Good riddance ! 
I'm glad of it !" 

" What could it be !" thought all the Hunnybuns. 

Mr. Hunnybun once more felt himself at ease, and went 
about like a gay young man. But only a few days after- 
wards, Augustus, reading the list of arrivals, exclaimed, 
" Why, here is Mrs. Philiskirk, located at Musgrove House, 
just by the Castle !" 

There indeed she was ; and with her an end of all Mr. 
Hunny bun's satisfaction. He had been over the very door- 
stone of her lodgings, and might have met her. He had 
been wandering on the north shore, and might have seen 
her coming out of a bathing-machine. He felt like Dick 
Swiveller, that all the streets in Scarborough were closed to 
him, though he did not owe a penny in the place. 

That was a wretched week to Mr. Hunnybun : he really 
contemplated flying the place, and that part of the country. 
He might meet Mrs. Philiskirk at any moment. But 
luckily Mrs. Philiskirk had seen him — had seen him pass to 
and fro to the castle — had seen him parading on the north 
cliff — and she was gone. Through a new acquaintance 
Mr. Hunnybun learned that Mrs. Philiskirk had quitted 
Scarborough in disgust, and had gone to Whitby : on which 
he thanked heaven, and vowed to himself never to set foot 
in that place. 

Scarborough was now free to him. He strode down 



THE IHJKNTBFJSTS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 401 

towards the Spa Saloon, at the sound of Kohler's brass 
band, and suddenly, in a retired bend of the shrubby walks, 
coming on Walter Lockwood, reading to Angela, as she sat 
embroidering, accompanied by a young lady with whom she 
had become very intimate, he declared it was the pleasantest 
sight he had seen for many a day. The clouds had vanished 
from Mr. Runnybun's sky. He was himself again. 



v D 



CHAPTEB IV. 



THE HTHOTBUNS GO TO PLAMBOROUGH HEAD ; AND WHAT THEY 
SAW THEEE. 

The Hunnybun family were enchanted with their new 
abode at Scarborough. Mr. Hunnybun, coming in to break- 
fast from his usual walks in the shrubbery walks of the cliff, 
said he had met two old London friends, Bennington and 
Pennington. " "Why," said he, " they come down here 
regularly every year. I used to wonder what could bring 
them so far north ; but now I only wonder 1 never came 
with them. Lookout!" he continued: "what a picture 
that is ! There is the bay all scattered with fishing-vessels, 
and describing as exact a circle under the town as if struck 
out with a pair of compasses, or by Giotto himself. How 
gradually runs out that grey old castle-hill into the ocean, 
forming that side of the bay, and covered with its lofty 
though shattered keep, and the long old turretted barbican, 
into which the modern barracks is stuck, like a new barn 
into the heart of an old abbey ! Look how the town, with 
its closely-built gabled houses, with their bright red roofs, 
lines all the sides of the bay, like a clear old Flemish, pic- 
ture. And then the little pier, and the quaint light-house 
at its southern point, complete the scene. See how the 
town has obviously grown from the little cluster of dwellings 
that formerly skulked for protection under the castle-hill 
and the castle — for protection from the north-east winds, 
and from enemies as savage in the old times. See how it 
has spread over the eminences all round, and sends up its 
busy smoke in the sun, showing what a mass of active human 
life there is in it. And how beautiful is the country round ! 
When you look out from the harbour, or farther off in a 
boat on the water, I scarcely know any town on this side of 
Edinburgh that looks half so picturesque. The old town, 
with its ruddy houses, and masses of trees clothing the 
sloping bank down to the sea. Then that light and lofty 
bridge which spans the Dene, or what the Scotch would 




cAsa/ JU^&y-. 



THE HTJKtfYBUNS AT THE SEA-STDE. 403 

call the glen, and unites the old town with the new one, 
whose terraces of white houses stand so well, with Oliver's 
Mount swelling away with its wooded crown above them, as 
if to match the heavy old castle ridge on the other side. 
Really it is very fine ! And when you reach the north cliff, by 
the castle, see another bay there at your feet, and the bold 
coast sweeping away to "Whitby, northward ; and then turn 
and see the white cliffs of Flamborough Head, twenty miles 
off to the southward ; you must say altogether that it i3 a 
very noble scene. But that, do you know, is a very small 
part of the charms of the neighbourhood. As you stand on 
the north cliff, you see, at the distance of a couple of miles 
or so from the coast, another set of heights and headlands 
raising themselves, and running on northward, the very fac- 
simile of those on the actual shore. These are obviously 
the shores and cliffs of an older sea. They are the old sea- 
margins, as Mr. Eobert Chambers calls them, in his very in- 
teresting work of that name ; and when you set out to visit 
them, my friend Bennington says, you are surprised to see 
what glens go running up along the grsen fields, and what 
mounts stand up in the midst of them, where the tide 
formerly ran, and left the harder strata of sandstone still 
standing in islands. And when you approach the distant 
heights, before you arrive at the table-land, you are still 
more astonished at the beautiful valleys and airy downs, 
that, covered with grass and corn-fields, adorn the country. 
Tou may see the lofty woods that clothe the long and lofty 
sweeps of the old shores from these heights here ; but Ben- 
nington tells me that we must drive up to Stepney, or Stiip- 
ness, the old Scandinavian name for steep headland, the 
green hill you see westward, and then through the Forge 
valley, a fine romantic valley full of woods, where the monks 
formerly had iron-works, and so to Hackness, the splendid 
park of Sir John Vanden Bempde Johnstone. When you 
have seen that, my friend Bennington says, you'll know 
something of Scarborough and its neighbourhood." 

" But now, I suppose, we must explore the town a little." 

All assented to this proposition gaily ; and away they went 

to the walks below. They soon encountered, amongst 

throngs of gay people, not only Hunnybun's friends, 

Bennington and Pennington, but Mr. Walter Lockwood. 



404 THE HTnOTBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

Thus suddenly swelled into a very considerable party, they 
descended those very pleasant winding walks, pausing afc 
various benches and summer-houses to take a view of the 
town and harbour below. 

" Some man of taste must have laid out these charming 
walks and shrubberies on this hill side," said Mr. Hunny- 
bun. 

" No doubt of it," replied Bennington ; " I have heard that 
th y were planned by the late Mr. Loudon." 

The party descended to the Spa House, at the foot of the 
hill, looking like a little battlemented fort, with its broad 
terrace in front, with seats filled with gay people, and num- 
bers of others watching the waves dash up against the wall 
that bounds it. 

Herr Kohler's band was playing, and the sands below were 
covered with people walking and riding, while a whole line 
of boats was drawn up at the water's edge ready to take off 
parties for a row. 

" It really is very lovely !" said Angela. 

" And what a good row of bathing-machines," said Hun- 
nybun, whose mind was very much alive to that subject. 
" Do you know that I've been at the trouble of counting 
them. Filey has but six machines, and Scarborough has 
eighty, — that's the difference. Sixty on this south shore, and 
twenty on the north." 

"I like the north shore best," said Pennington, "for 
bathing. It's more retired, and the people are very civil." 

" So they are here," said Bennington; " I never was in a 
place where the people were so civil. The boatmen, the 
cabmen, the people who keep horses on the stand there by 
the Dene bridge, and who let out carriages and pony-chaises, 
with their smart red-jacketed postilions, all are invariably 
civil and reasonable ; and that makes one of the greatest 
pleasures of the place. They have no haggling nor trickery 
here." 

" How delightful !" said Angela. 

" It's quite true, I assure you," said Pennington. "But 
now," said he, " let's have a stroll iuto the lower part of the 
old town; it is curious." 

The party, under the guidance of Pennington and Ben- 
nington, therefore, were soon penetrating into the lowest 



THE HTJKNTBTTN'S AT THE SEA-SIDE. 405 

purlieus of ancient Scarborough. Perhaps a more closely 
packed set of human habitations never was witnessed; 
streets wound along the hill sides and narrow passages : one, 
graced with the name of " Long Greece," ran directly up 
them, in which old-fashioned houses stood closely face to 
face. But everywhere was the most wonderful cleanliness ; 
all the houses, great and small, had brightly painted doors, 
and windows and shutters. The knockers and door-handles 
of brass were polished as bright as hands could make them, 
and the steps at the doors were all washed with yellow 
ochre. In almost every window, even of the poorest and 
most closely built houses, were pots of flowers ; and the 
glimpses they got into the dwellings showed the floor neatly 
carpeted, and all as clean as without. Here and there were 
large and substantial houses, evidently occupied by sub- 
stantial people, and some of the chief inhabitants of the 
place. Everywhere the streets and narrow passages were 
clean, and free from the repulsive odours which too com- 
monly abound in densely built towns. 

" "What a wonderfully clean place !" exclaimed Mrs. 
Hunnybun : " I should like to engage a housemaid from 
Scarborough." 

" And what a contrast to a Scotch sea-port, or even to 
such a place as North Shields I" exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun. 

" That's the consequence of sanatory regulations, my dear 
sir," said Pennington, who was a great sanatory advocate. 
Perhaps no old borough has had so wise a municipal law as 
Scarborough, and that for ages. It is this ; that any one 
may remove any dirt or manure, however valuable, found 
lying in the street, without asking any one's leave ; and if 
every nuisance is not removed once a week, the keeper of 
the pavement shall present the house of him from whom 
such a nuisance has arisen, and take surety for its removal 
under a suitable penalty. That's the law," said Mr. Pen- 
nington, ,l and it has become the habit.'" 

"And an excellent habit," said Mr. Hunnybun. 

Pennington and Bennington conducted them through this 
crowded place to the bakehouse of Mrs. Shaw, the celebrated 
bread and biscuit baker, where they found the stout and 
good-natured dame busy am^ng the journeymen. Mr. 
Hunnybun was quite delighted to talk with this shrewd 



406 THE HUNNYBTJNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

woman of business, who assured him that, unlike the London 
bakers, her m^n were never worked of nights or on Sun- 
days. 

Thence they wander •{ on among scenes that seemed to 
carry them into a town of the middle ages. There were 
pipe-makers, and rope-makers, and other handicraftsmen, 
carrying on their labours, as it were, in public, and numbers 
of French and Dutch sailors strolling to and fro in their 
picturesque red caps and wooden shoes. 

The next morning, the same party being again together, 
the ringing, of a bell suddenly caught their attention. 
" What's that ?" inquired Mr. Hunnybun. 

" It's the steamer s^oing to make a trip to Flamborough 
Head," said Mr. \v alter Lockwood. " It's a fine day for a 
sail; why not go ?" 

" Ay, why not ?" returned Mr. Hunnybun, with his usual 
impulsiveness ; and the next moment the whole party were 
hurrying along towards the pier, to get on board ; "Walter 
Lockwood and Augustus having first suddenly disappeared 
up a side street, whence they returned, each armed with a 
double-barrelled gun, and equipped with a shot belt which 
they had hired at a gunsmith's. 

Presently they were all on board ; and the neat little 
vessel steamed out of the harbour. The people on board 
were a perfect crowd, and the greatest part of them ob- 
viously of the humbler classes. 

"What are these people ?" asked Mr. Hunnybun. 
" They are trippers," said Bennington : " They came inwith 
a cheap train yesterday from Leeds, and stay over to-morrow; 
they are people who but for the cheap excursion-trains 
would never see the sea in their lives, and, I assure you, 
they make the most of their trips. Fathers, mothers, and 
children come pouring in by thousands, loaded with boxes 
and baskets, and they seldom stop till they have got down 
to the water," 

" And into it," interrupted Pennington ; " which is better 
still." 

" Yes ; into it," continued Bennington. " They make the 
most of their time, even when a day's trip only leaves them 
three or four hours in Scarborough; yet, in that time, they 
will get a dip into the sea, a row in a boat, a ride on donkeys 



THE HUNNTBTJJTS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 407 

and horses, and even c. drive in a chaise. They buy fish, and 
carry it away in their pocket-handkerchiefs to be cooked, 
and take whole loads of fish back with them. To-morrow 
are boat-races, and the walking of a greased pole over the 
water for a pig : and these people will all be here to see 
them : to-day they get a trip to Flamborough and Brid- 
lington." 

Mr. Hunnybun took prodigious interest iu his new 
neighbours. There was a fiddle and a guitar on board, 
and all the " trippers" were evidently delighted with the 
music. One stout child of some four years of age, holding 
by its mother's gown, and hearing the first tweedle of the 
fiddle at the other end of the vessel, said, to Mr. Hunnybun's 
infinite delight, — 

" Mother, what noise is that ?" 
" "What noise, child ?" said the mother. 
" That noise like a chicken singing," said the child. 
"Eh, John!" exclaimed another good wife to her hus- 
band : " what a power o' watter ! Why, here's more 
watter than would turn all th' mills i' Pudsey." 

But Bennington called the attention of the party to the 
noble view of the town and country beyond, as seen from 
the sea ; and Augustus called their attention to two indi- 
viduals, whom he declared to be the identical Brown, Jones, 
and Robinson of Punch. There they were all arrayed in 
shooting-jackets and shot belts, and armed with double- 
barrelled guns. Brown wore a white wide-awake, Jones a 
black one, and Robinson a flat glazed sailor's hat, and a 
gold cannon, the length of his finger, and divers other enor- 
mous charms, at his watch-chain. 

"They are going," said Walter Lockwood, "to make 
havoc among the myriads of sea-fowl that build on the cliffs 
of Flamborough Head in spring, but which all have flown 
from thence months ago. Our good stars grant that they 
don't shoot any of us !" 

The sun shone brightly, the waves rolled pleasantly, and 
in a couple of hours they were off Flamborough Head. 
The Hunnybun party were quite enchanted. They had never 
seen Staffa, nor the Giants' Causeway ; and were, therefore, 
pleased with lesser wonders, and the bold, lofty cliffs of 
Flamborough, all white as snow, and running out into the 



408 THE HUNNYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

green and heaving sea, in many strange shapes, hoary a^d 
ancient, and worn by the tides and tempests into most vene- 
rable aspects, struck them with admiration. Deep caves 
and ravines were scooped out between the perpendicular 
walls of chalk far into them. The projecting and lofty head- 
lands were ploughed and scored by the ceaseless graver of 
time, through long ages. Huge caverns yawned at their 
feet, into which the sea was rushing with a hollow roar, and 
isolated masses of some two hundred feet high rose from 
the ocean, dazzlingly white in the sunshine. 

Amongst these white and wild rocks appeared a narrow 
and very steep strand, on which was drawn up high above 
the tide a whole shoal of fishing-cobbles, presenting a sin- 
gular picture to the eye. But already a boat was fast ap- 
proaching the steamer, which was proceeding to Bridling- 
ton. Those world-wide words, " Ease her !" " Stop her 1" 
resounded ; and, anon, the Hunnybun party, and such other 
of the passengers as wished to remain at Elamborough, 
were safe in the boat ; and, of course, among these, Brown, 
Jones, and Robinson, who were prepared for a desperate on- 
slaught on the sea-fowl, which were nowhere to be seen. 

"If you will see the caves," said the boatmen, "we must 
go at once, or the tide will be too high." 

'• Away to Robin Lythe's Hole," said Walter Lockwood ; 
and the boatmen pulled away towards a not very large 
mouth of the cave, into which the tide was already pouring. 
Presently they drew near the foot of the precipitous cliffs, 
and entered between the great sea-walls. 

"How awful!" said Angela. 

" How grand !" said Augustus.' 

" But is it safe ?" said Brown, Jones, and Robinson. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hunnybun were silent, but looked at the 
boatmen inquiringly. 

" Quite safe," said the boatmen, " if you hasten forward ; 
the tide is a little too advanced, but if you go quickly, you 
will be at the other end before it comes in there, and you 
can walk out on the strand." 

" But if we are not quick enough ?" asked Brown, Jones, 
and Robinson. 

" "Why, then you'll all be drowned," said the boatmen, 
coolly. 



THE HTJ^jSTBUKS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 409 

" Go on," said Walter Lockwood : " there's no danger, 
and we have time enough." 

And now the boatmen landing their cargo on tne wild 
iioor of rocks, put back, saying they would wait at the 
other end. 

So here were our friends, all wandering on through the 
heart of these great rocks, which opened above them into 
great domes and shadowy halls, with glittering pillars and 
fantastic masses of white stone. But the fear of being 
caught by the tide urged them on ; the light from the 
strand grew stronger and stronger before them ; and, at 
last, out they issued on the chalky shore, like dazzling snow 
before their dazzled eyes. 

The boatmen were ready to conduct them to other caves ; 
the Dove-cot, the Kirk-hole, and still more great sea-caves, 
into which the tide was rolling and thundering, against the 
huge blocks of their Cyclopean walls. 

Returning from this voyage of wonders, an unfortunate 
gull soared carelessly over the boat. At once, Brown, 
Jones, and Robinson sprang up, and levelled their pieces at 
her. 

" Mind !" cried Mr. Hunnybun ; " they're going to 
shoot." 

" Good gracious !" shrieked Mrs. Hunnybun: " they're 
going to kill us all!" 

"Don't point at me !" shouted Bennington. 

" Aim at me ! Aim at me !" screamed Pennington. 

But bang — bang — bang! went off their barrels. The 
gull soared as carelessly as ever above their heads. 

Bang — bang — bang, went off the second discharge of the 
barrels, Brown setting the butt-end of his gun to his sto- 
mach as he fired. The gull still soared as securely as ever 
above their heads. 

" Good Heavens !"exclaimed Brown, Jones, and Robinson, 
all at once — " "What shot a gull will carry !" 

" It must have it to carry first !" said one of the boat- 
men, with a laugh, to "Walter Lockwood. 

" Why did you say l Aim at me !' Pennington ?" asked 
Bennington. 

" Because I was sure that what those young men aimed 
at they would not hit," returned Pennington. 



410 THE EXXNTBITNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

There was a general laugh, in which Brown, Jones, and 
Eobinson did not join 

Augustus now took aim at the gull. 

" Don't shoot !" exclaimed "Walter Lockwood. But it was 
too late : the shot was fired,, and the gull dropped, whirling 
down into the water close to them. 

"There!" cried Brown, Jones, and Eobinson. "We 
knew we had hit it. It would have dropped of itself if you 
had let it alone." 

" I told you not to shoot," cried Lockwood to Augustus. 
" I knew they would declare they had killed it. If you 
had let it alone it would have lived for a century." 

Brown, Jones, and Eobinson looked thunderbolts. 

But now the party put on shore. Brown, Jones, and 
Eobinson rushed up the steep strand, and looked resolved 
to lay waste the game of a whole lordship. Mr. Hunny- 
bun took an old fisherman, who offered himself as guide, 
along the headlands to the lighthouse. Here they strolled 
along the short velvet turf that covered the headlands, and 
looked down with awe and wonder amongst the cliffs aud 
precipices, the battered pinnacles springing from the sea, 
and which in spring were covered with legions of sea-fowl, 
rooks, pigeons, jackdaws, and ravens amongst them, but 
which now were all gone. The day was fine ; hundreds of 
white sail were scattered over the ocean. The air was deli- 
cious, and the sound of the waves dashing up against the 
rocks far below, made the walk delightful. Walter Lock- 
wood and Augustus now shot down the game for w r hich 
they had brought their guns ; and these were the wheat- 
ears, the English ortolans, which frequent these downs, and 
which are excellent eating. 

At noon the little party adjourned to the little cottage 
inn, near the landing-place, to a rustic dinner. As they 
approached the inn they heard a tremendous firing in the 
neighbouring fields, and soon saw Brown, Jones, and Eo- 
binson, in full pursuit of their game. 

Anon, as our friends were seated over a beef-steak, and a 
few glasses of pale ale, in came the three sportsmen, covered 
with dust, and ordered "Tea," to cool them. 

"You have made a terrible slaughter, gentlemen," said 
Lockwood. 



THE HTHraNTEUFS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 411 

"We have had good sport, capital sport !" said Brown. 

" But where is it ?" said Lockwood. 

" It was so heavy, and no use to us here, you know, — 
that, — eh ! — that — we gave it to the guide !" said Brown. 

" A capital thing for him !" said Jones. 

" A regular god-send !" said Eobinson. 

""Well, gentlemen, at all events you've had a lark," said 
Lockwood, holding up at the same time the little bird bearing 
that name, which the three had shot. 

The cockney sportsmen— for they were such — looked cm- 
founded; the whole Hunnybun party laughed, and soon 
after the three went out, wondering how in the world 
Lockwood had discovered their secret, when they had given 
the guide money to keep it. 

The Hunnybun party, after dinner, hired a stage-coach 
that stood at the inn door, to drive them to the Danes' 
dyke, an ancient mound of the Danes' construction, run- 
ning from Speeton ClhTs to near Bridlington, and by ^which 
the Danes fortified Plamborough Head in one of their in- 
cursions. 

At five o'clock the steamer took them up again; and 
Brown, Jones, and Eobinson, seated in a row on the pad- 
dle-box, with cigars or short pipes in mouth, made a goodly 
show in their sporting costume, and their mild counte- 
nances, ruminating over the disappointment and ludicrous 
exposures of the day. 

And so once more our voyagers set foot in Scarborough, 
right merry over their adventures. 



CHAPTER V. 

TREATS CHIEELY OF AN ASTOUNDING^ DISCOVERY WHICH AUGUSTUS MADE 
AT HULL, BUT ENDS WITH A PLEASANT BREAKFAST. 

And now the Hunnybuns were involved in prodigious 
gaieties. They had taken their family ticket, which admitted 
them for the time of their intended stay to the full enjoy- 
ment of the gardens on the cliffs, or the walks, as they are 
called, lying just below their house, and to the saloon at the 
Spa, with its twice a week concerts and daily playing of the 
brass band in the open air. Mr. Walter Lockwood was 
located at the Crown Hotel, just by them, the great aristo- 
cratic quarters, except for such old families as occupied 
their accustomed private lodgings on the Old Cliff, as it is 
called. They had dined with Mr. Lockwood, and had been 
introduced to the drawing-room in the evening, where the 
company met, and where there was music and dancing to 
every young heart's content. Bennington and Pennington 
were at Blanchard's : and there too the Hunnybuns had 
been, and partaken of the gaieties and society of the house. 
Mr. Lockwood had friends, too, at the Royal Hotel ; and to 
them too the Hunnybuns had been introduced. Nothing, 
therefore, was left but that they must give a party, — and a 
very gay party it was ; for Mrs. Hunnybun too had made 
so many delightful acquaintances, and Mr. Hunnybun had 
made so many more — cordial old neighbous from town, 
whose faces were as familiar to him as his own morning- 
gown, but to whom he had never before spoken. These he 
had met at Mr. Theakstone's pleasant news-room, where he 
and Pennington and Bennington went every morning to 
charge themselves with their daily store of news, which they 
discussed on the benches of the walks, and enlightened their 
friends with — families the two latter gentlemen had none 
with them — at dinner-time. 

Thus engagoments and jollities grew amain. There were 






■zz^?y. 



THE HUNNYBtWS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 413 

daily afternoon drives and rides into the country round, for 
the mornings were taken up with bathing and sauntering 
about. And fine scampering equestrian parties there were : 
Augustus, Angela, Walter Lockwood, Quintus, and Mira 
even, the one on a roan pony, the other on a gentle and 
slender white horse, which Lockwood had named Mon 
blanc. Other young ladies and gentlemen joined them, 
forming into a grand cavalcade, only sometimes too helter- 
skelter for the graver natives. Quintus and Mira rode like 
two little Arabs, and, as Lockwood informed them, excited 
the anger of certain old farmers near the town ; one of 
whom, leaning over his gate, ejaculated gruffly as they gal- 
loped by, " Wanten a job ! wanten a good birches rod about 
their backs !" 

However no harm came of it ; they were all very merry 
and happy ; and, besides ricliug parties, other parties were 
formed which they were invited to join. A steamer trip to 
Robin's Hood Bay and "Whitby was proposed ; but to 
Whitby Mr. Hunnybun said positively he would not go. 

"Not go to Whitby!" exclaimed Pennington: "Not 
see those fine old cliffs !" 

" Not see the old Abbey and the alum quarries !" said 
Lockwood. 

" No, none of these," said Mr. Hunnybun, doggedly : " I 
don't want one shilling to tell me how another looks. I've 
seen Mamborough Head ; they are not finer than that !" 

But to-morrow were the boat-races, and Mrs. Philliskirk 
and Whitby were forgotten. In a few days there were to 
be horse-races on the sands, and in a week a grand ball at 
the Crown ; all the elite of the Scarborough visitors were to 
be there — lords, ladies, and all. The shops were already full 
of attractive ball costume, the tickets were in great demand, 
and all the young heads and heels were in agitation about 
this greatest ball of the season. The Hunnybuns possessed 
themselves of tickets immediately. Angela was already 
universally admired; she had no occasion to display her 
beauty amid the crowd of beauties that daily paraded the 
Dene Bridge and the walks. There were busy whispers 
that she was already engaged to the handsome and wealthy 
young Lockwood of Lockwood. 

This might not be exactly true ; but then we know what 



414 THE HUNNYBTTNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

lis the staple of conversation at these gay watering-places : 
what match-making is for ever going on, and in Scarborough 
pre-eminently : what speculation there is about all those 
gay and handsome young ladies that you meet there, — and 
not young ones only : what tender hopes are said to have 
confidently drawn widows and widowers to that enchanted 
spot : what a reputation has the Crown for aristocratic 
acquaintance-making in the matrimonial line : what a still 
greater reputation the Talbot for bourgeois alliances. At 
New York you are said constantly to hear, as you walk the 
streets, the words dollars ! dollars ! — and it is very certain 
that, in crossing the Dene Bridge at Scarborough, you do 
constantly catch the phrases, " Is she rich ? Who are his 
connections ? Is she so handsome, then ? Who is that old 
lady with those beautiful Miss Flytraps ? Is she really a 
rich old aunt, think you ?" 

Y ou perpetually hear such odd sentences floating over that 
bridge of sighs, like those of Munchausen's wintry horn in 
the warm vernal air. Even Bennington declared that con- 
versing most socially with a gay widow one day in one of 
the picturesque moss-houses in the walks, she gave some 
most ominous sighs, — said that " the sun of her happiness 
was set, and that she wished she was a clod of the valley !" 
At which he, thinking her to be ill, started up and asked if 
he should fetch a doctor. The next day, however, a new 
sun seemed to be rising for her, in the form of a Puseyite 
clergyman who seemed considerably fascinated by her. 

But now came the boat-races. At eight o'clock the 
Hunnybuns and all Scarborough were roused by the firing 
of cannon. It proceeded from Lord Landesborough's yacht, 
which, as some hundreds of visitors springing from bed and 
peeping out through the sides of their blinds, might see, 
was lying in the open bay with flags of all nations streaming 
from its rigging. There were also two or three other yachts, 
equally decorated, and whole fleets of boats also lying ready 
for the pastimes of the day. 

All morning, fishing vessels came sailing in from Hull 
and Whitby, and other places ; the bay was crowded with 
cobbles, the pier and the heights all round with eager spec- 
tators. At noon, a cannon fired from the yacht of Lord 
Landesborough, who gave the prizes, announced the com- 



THE HTJJTNTBTTtfS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 415 

mencement of the sports. We shall not describe them. Six 
boats at a time contended for each prize, sailing round a flag- 
boat a mile off, and so back again. Great, of course, was the 
jnterest and the enthusiasm excited by each of these contests ; 
but the great fun of the day was the walking a greased 
pole for a pig and two sovereigns. This pole, the mast of a 
yawl, was fastened by its thick end into the wall of the 
pier, under the light-house, and suspended horizontally over 
the water by a rope from the other end secured to the 
balcony of the light-house. The object was for the can- 
didates to walk this pole without falling into the water, 
to let the pig out of the trap fall into the sea, plunge 
in after it, and capture it. But many were the aspirants 
for the prize who plunged headlong into the water before 
reaching the middle of the pole ; and that amid the loud shouts 
and laughter of the people, who stood thick and dense as a 
swarm of bees upon the pier and light-house, as well as ■ in 
boats. All were sworn before trying that they could swim, 
or they might have been drowned. Twice was the prize 
won, for Lord Landesborough bought it in once ; and about 
five o'clock all the little boys of the town might be seen 
accompanying the prize-pig home, full of pity for it because 
it had " been in t' watter." 

The next day, Mr. Walter Lockwood set off for a few 
days to Lockwood, intending to be back for the ball, for 
which great preparations were making not only by our 
Hunnybun friends, but by all the ladies, old and young, in 
Scarborough. 

It happened also at this time, that some communication 
from town made it necessary for Mr. Hunnybun to send 
Augustus to Hull ; he returned only the day before the 
ball. But what a discovery had he made ! Mr. Walter 
Lockwood, the handsome and wealthy Lockwood of Lock- 
wood, as they had supposed, was — a cheesemonger of Hull ! 
Augustus had actually seen him there — seen him in his 
shop — at his desk ! There he was, and no mistake, writing 
at his shop-desk, posting his books no doubt, or putting 
down orders for cheese, bacon, and hams, and other such 
abominations as these articles now seemed to the Hunny- 
buns, — in which it was evident he dealt largely. 

Augustus was almost knocked down by this accidental 



416 THE HTTKNTBTTXS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

discovery ; lie stared at the dreadful apparition, thinking at 
first that some singular likeness had deceived him. But no 
— it was Mr. "Walter Lockwood, and no one else. Seated at 
his desk, writing, Augustus believed he had seen him, as 
stopping a moment to speak to his shopman, he lifted his 
head. It was a monstrum horrendum discovery. Augustus 
staggered back into the middle of the street, and gazed 
wildly at the name over the shop. Yes, there it was, sure 
enough, — " W. Lockwood, "Wholesale and Retail Dealer in 
Cheese, Butter, Hams, and Bacon !" 

" Cheese, Butter, Hams, and Bacon !" said poor Au- 
gustus, in a distracted way, to himself. " Confound the 
commodities, and him that sells them !" he ejaculated, and 
rushed down the street. He was at that moment on his 
way to the station : he stopped ; he thought he would turn 
back, walk right into the shop, and confront the detestable 
impostor. But no, he did not feel nerve enough ; he was 
knocked down by this astounding discovery. He must go 
home, and get up his strength for a terrible explosion. He 
would let Lockwood come to the great ball, and there he 
would confront him before all the company. But no, that 
would not do either. He knew that the affair had gone a 
great way between Lockwood and Angela; he had en- 
couraged it, his uncle and aunt had encouraged it ; and a 
public exposure was not to be thought of. It would kill 
Angela, and disgrace them. 

Augustus, therefore, went home in a malignant fever, 
muttering to himself as the train rushed on, " Cheese and 
Butter ! Hams and Bacon !" It was now his turn, instead 
of his uncle's, to be thought a little wrong in the head. 

By the time he reached home he was as dispirited as 
Brown, Jones, and Bobinson; and, like them, he would 
have smoked a cigar for consolation, but that cigars were 
strictly forbidden in a railway carriage. 

What's amiss, Augustus dear ?" exclaimed Angela. " Tou 
are ill!" 

" Oh, very ill I" exclaimed Mrs. Hunnybun. " How 
dreadfully you look !" 

" Has there been an accident, a concussion on the line ?" 
asked Mr. Hunnybun, also in great alarm. 

Augustus knew not what to do; he saw one line on 



THE HUKNTBUFS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 417 

which there would be a terrific concussion the moment 
the fatal secret was out. But there was no help for it. 
To-morrow was the ball, — it must out ; and then what would 
become of poor Angela ? 

If there be an heroic act in this world it is the retention 
of an extraordinary piece of news for which everybody is 
impatient, although the divulgence of it would be like a 
spark in a powder-mill. But this piece of heroism Augustus 
resolved to achieve. He was determined that his sister and 
the Hunnybun seniors should have one more quiet night's 
rest ; he therefore only said that he had a bilious headache, 
which was brought on by something which disagreed with 
him at Hull. 

" That's soon put to rights," said Mr. Hunnybun, who 
very cheerfully and straightway brought from his portable 
medicine-chest his fixed remedy for bilious headache — 
Pilula Hydrarg. gr. v. hora somni capiendo,, and Pulvis Uhei 
and Sal. Polychrest next morning. 

Augustus promised faithfully to take these : he meant — 
take them up stairs, and throw them out of the window : 
which he accordingly did. 

Let any feeling person imagine what a night Augustus 
passed. While all the other Hunnybuns were sleeping as 
if there were no such thing as a deceitful cheesemonger in 
existence ; Mr. Hunnybun snoring very harmoniously ; 
Angela dreaming of the ball and all her triumphs in the 
eyes of Lockwood of Lockwood, and of scores of envious 
beauties ; while all this was going on in sleep and dreams, 
there lay poor Augustus tossing and turning like an eel on 
a spear, — but very much more uneasily of course, because 
eels are said to like it. 

But morning came ; and Augustus entered the breakfast- 
room looking as bilious as ever, complaining as much as ever. 

" My dear fellow; how's this ?" asked Mr. Hunnybun, 
" did you take your physic ?" 

" Oh yes," said Augustus, mournfully : " I took it, sure 
enough — popped it down in a minute, — but it's done me 
no good." 

" God bless my soul !" said poor Mr. Hunnybun : " The 
drugs must be bad, — we'll have a doctor." And so saying 
he started up, intending to fetch one himself. 

E E 



418 THE HUNNYBUSTS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 

" Stop, uncle, stop !" said Augustus, seizing him by tha 
arm : " Doctors won't do me good, nor physic either ; I've 
something on my mind." 

" God bless me !" again exclaimed Mr. Hunnybun, but 
'this time more cheerfully. " On your mind have you, eh ?" 
added he ; naturally supposing the young man was in love. 

Augustus took his uncle into the next room, leaving his 
aunt and Angela in a strange state of wouder and per- 
plexity. 

" It's a very bad job, uncle !" said Augustus, looking paler 
than ever. " I don't know how Angela and my aunt will 
bear it, but that Walter Lockwood is a cheesemonger ! he 
is, upon my soul, uncle, — a cheesemonger of Hull !" 

Mr. Hunnybun started as if he had received a violent 
blow, and then stood motionless and rigid as one of the 
upright stones at Stonehenge. 

" A cheesemonger !" at length he said: "Nonsense! he 
is a landed proprietor, — he is Lockwood of Lockwood !" 

" He calls himself so," said Augustus. " He said he 
was going to Lockwood, but he was going to Hull ! I've 
seen him myself in his shop, — have seen his name over the 
door !" 

" God bless my soul !" said Mr. Hunnybun, staring at 
the wall. "Why," added he, after a pause, "Michael 
Purdy, the bone-merchant, is nothing to this ! God bless 
me!" And with that he turned right round, bolted into 
the breakfast-room, and without the slightest consideration 
for Angela's feelings, so overpowering was his amazement, 
exclaimed, " Could you believe it ? Mr. Walter Lockwood is 
nothmg but a cheesemonger !" 

There were instantaneously two dreadful and piercing 
screams, two breakfast cups fell with a smash to the floor, 
old Clouds ran away yelling, believing himself to be fright- 
fully scalded. 

" Uncle ! uncle ! what made you do that ?" exclaimed 
Augustus, rushing forward to catch Angela, who was 
falling into a hysterical swoon, just in time to save her from 
falling on the fender. Thus saving her, like the best of 
brothers as he was, he laid her on a sofa, where she went off 
comfortably into a death-like swoon. Poor Mrs. Hunnybun ! 
she too required attention, having sunk of herself into a 



THE HUNNTBTJITS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 419 

large chair, where she too might have swooned off also, but 
that affectionate anxiety for Angela soon roused her again 
into activity. Mr. Hunnybun, in the meantime, really went 
off for the doctor, — informing him that the nerves of the 
two ladies had received a shock by a sudden piece of ill 
news ; but what news it of course was unnecessary to say. 

It was. all over now with the ball. Such a catastrophe was 
enough to shatter all the nerves in Scarborough. 

But Angela was a heroine. In the morning she be- 
sought her uncle to let them instantly quit Scarborough, 
which, not being quite possible, was deferred till the next 
day ; and in the afternoon, being sufficiently recovered to 
leave the sofa, when she saw all her beautiful things which 
had been prepared in readiness for the evening's ball, she 
first shed a violent flood of tears, then took a new and des- 
perate resolve. She would go to the ball ; she would meet 
and cut that base, base impostor ! No sooner was this 
brilliant conception formed, than Angela rushed down stairs 
and communicated her resolve to her brother. 

" Bravo !" exclaimed Augustus ; " Bravo ! that's like a 
girl of spirit ; I am proud of you !" 

All was soon arranged, and though Mr. and Mrs. Hunny- 
bun themselves declined going, a most desirable chaperon 
was instantly found to take charge of Angela, who was 
confessedly one of the prettiest girls in Scarborough. 

Angela made her appearance in superb costume, and the 
excitement and emotion of the morning gave a dignity and 
somewhat haughty expression to her countenance, which 
only added to its effect. Nobody knew her secret but her 
brother, and he was ever by her side. 

According to former arrangements Lockwood was to meet 
them at the ball, and Angela was engaged to him for the 
first dance. They entered the room : there was Mr. "Walter 
Lockwood, and oh, sight of wonder, astounding audacity on 
his part ! there was he in actual conversation with Lady 
Landesborough. No sooner, however, did his eyes catch the 
Hunnybun brother and sister, than quitting her company, 
he hastened to them, and was received with the most frosty 
indifference. 

" "What is the meaning of this ? For Heaven's sake, 
Angela, what does it mean ?" said Lockwood, in an under 



420 THE HUIOTBTTNS AT THE SEA-STDE. 

tone of the most painful surprise. He had never addressed 
her before as Angela ; this little circumstance, which, 
under other circumstance's, would have been like music to 
her ear, only now, from the lips of a cheesemonger, acted 
like an insult ; and with the dignity of an oifended queen, 
she swept from him. 

He stood aghast; he could scarcely stammer forth, 
" "What means this ?" Augustus said, sternly, " You know, 
sir!" and Angela, beset with solicitations for the dance, 
regardless of her engagement to Lockwood, was led away 
triumphantly by a young man who, said one elderly lady to 
another, was the best marriageable man in the room, being 
the only son of a millionaire. 

Gracious heavens, what a scene was this ! All the room 
saw that something was amiss — that the beautiful Miss 
Hunnybun, the niece of that rich old Londoner, had quar- 
relled with Lockwood of Lockwood, to whom everybody 
thought she was engaged ; and now there was a chance for 
all the other young men, and for the young ladies also, for 
Lockwood was now free ! Did not everybody see how that 
young London puppy had cut him ! But why did Lock- 
wood look so downhearted about it? He ought to have 
more spirit ! And look now, he was dancing with one of 
those handsome Miss Flytraps, and she had a large fortune, 
too ; oh, he would soon get over the loss of Miss Hunnybun ; 
and the Flytrap-aunt, from whom, it was said, all the money 
was to come, looked on well pleased, and declared that it 
had always been a wonder to her what that young Lockwood 
could see in that Miss Hunnybun that people made such a 
fuss about ; and did not everybody know that her uncle, the 
old gentleman who wasn't there to-night, was out of his 
mind ? She had heard the queerest things about him at 
Filey. But just as she was about to communicate these 
to her confidential friend, she beheld a sight which was not 
less amazing to her than to Augustus Hunnybun ; for 
glancing round the room after several dances with a most 
fascinating little girl, this young man beheld, not only 
Walter Lockwood talking to his sister, but his sister in the 
midst of the ball-room, first looking very pale, whilst she 
spoke in a low voice, and then suddenly become not only 
crimson with blushing, but beamingly beautiful as if with a 



THE HUNNYBUNS AT THE SEA-SIDE. 421 

divine joy, as she listened to something which Lockwood 
spoke in return. 

Augustus's fingers tingled, and his blood boiled, and for- 
getting his fascinating partner, he exclaimed to himself, 
" Can she be so weak — what a foolish thing is woman ! By 
Jove, I believe she loves the fellow !" 

The dance was ended, and Angela was at her brother's 
side, whispering in his ear, " I must speak with you 
Augustus, — let us get out of this crowd. Oh, I have some- 
thing so particular to say to you. It's all a mistake ; you 
are quite wrong. That man at Hull is his cousin !" 

" What nonsense !" said Augustus, feeling still more 
angry in the belief that this was only a deeper imposition. 

The brother and sister found an ante-room, where they 
could speak more freely. " Oh, Augustus ! what a mistako 
you made, what a fright you have put us in !" said Angela, 
speaking in a low, joyful voice. " But, thank heaven, it is 
only a mistake ! He is Walter Lockwood of Lockwood : 
he loves me, dear Augustus ! It is his cousin 'who is that 
horrid man in Hull. How could you ever think that our 
Mr. Lockwood was a cheesemonger !" 

" He is deceiving you again," said Augustus. 

"No, no! I am quite sure he is not;" returned the 
happy Angela. " I would believe him before all the world. 
But to convince you, he will take you or my uncle over to 
Lockwood or to Hull !" 

Augustus was not obstinate ; he was very willing to be 
proved in the wrong. The two returned to the ball-room, 
determined to enjoy to the utmost all the pleasures it 
offered them, and which were most consonant to their 
feelings. 

The elderly ladies sat and gossiped, or looked up from 
their cards, and wondered at another change in the magic 
lantern. Lockwood, of Lockwood, was once more dancing 
with old Hunny bun's niece ; and the old Ely trap-aunt had 
a great consolation in this state of affairs, for it left the son 
of the millionaire at liberty ; and why should he not be 
caught by one of her own nieces ? 

Angela's chaperon was proud of her charge, and the 
most good-natured soul in the world; she did not hurry 
the young people away ; and they returned home so late, or 
rather so early in the morning, that Mr. Hunnybun, who 



422 THE HFNNYBUNS AT THE SEA- SIDE. 

had quite intended to sit up for them, was forced to go to 
bed. Thus neither she nor her husband learned the unex- 
pected truth as soon as they otherwise would, and hence the 
little occurrence which has yet to be related. 

Early in the morning, that is about two hours after the 
young people's return, Mr. Hunnybun was taking a stroll 
in the walks, when at a sudden turn he came face to face 
with Walter Lockwood. 

" Ha ! Mr. Hunnybun," said Lockwood, in his frank 
way, " I was coming to see you as early as possible this 
morning. I am glad to meet you here." 

" Hem !" said Mr. Hunnybun, chuflny. 

" I have just made a discovery." 

" So have I, sir," interrupted Mr. Hunnybun. 

""Which," continued the young man, "makes it neces- 
sary for me to speak out plainly." 

" That's precisely my case, sir," said Mr. Hunnybun, 
looking very frosty. 

" And if you make us so happy as to give your sanc- 
tion " 

"Sanction!" said Mr. Hunnybun," there needs none; 
my niece has altered her mind — irrevocably altered it." 

"Impossible!" exclaimed Lockwood, "why should she?" 

"Why should she?" repeated Mr. Hunnybun, with a 
sort of galvanic chuckle. "Ha! ha! Well, well, Mr. 
Lockwood, never mind ! I did think you as solid as double 
Gloucester. But though you've buttered your bread to 
save your bacon, neither Shem, Ham, nor Japhet, shall take 
me in." The old gentleman was getting very angry, and 
was about to move off. 

" Good gracious !" exclaimed Lockwood, seizing him by 
the arm, " have they not told you what a foolish idea that 
was — that about the cheesemonger ?" 

" Foolish story, eh ! Poh ! Did not my nephew see you 
in your own shop ?" 

" Saw me in a shop !" continued Lockwood. 

"And your name over the door ?" 

" Yes ; W. Lockwood over the door," said he. 

" Well, then, Mr. W. Lockwood, I beg you to release my 
arm ; as a cheesemonger you might have been an honest 
man ; but, sir, you are an impostor!" 

Lockwood held him firmly, and said, " But, my dear sir, 



THE HUNHTBUlfS AT THE SEA-STDE. 423 

you must hear me. The cheesemonger is a cousin of mine, 
Mr. "William Lockwood — an excellent young man ; it was 
his shop, not mine, that your nephew saw ; it is his name, 
and not mine, which is over the door." 

""What !" said Mr. Hunnybun, feeling at once truth in 
the young man's manner ; " it's your cousin, then, who deals 
in cheese, — not you !" 

" Precisely : my cousin William Lockwood ; and a clever, 
sensible fellow, too. I always go to his house when I am at 
Hull." 

"And Augustus and Angela know this?" asked Mr. 
Hunnybun. 

" Every word of it. It was all explained last night. But 
you all seem to have such a horror of cheese and bacon," 
said Walter, laughing. 

" Oh, no, sir, I assure you !" said Mr Hunnybun, 
looking very red and rather foolish, " but you mistake ; it 
was the idea of an impostor — not merely of a cheesemonger 
— which one abhorred." 

" And quite right, too," said Lockwood : and with that he 
and Mr. Hunnybun shook hands most vigorously, and the 
next moment the old gentleman taking his arm, they might 
be seen walking up and down the esplanade in confidential 
talk, before they turned into Mr. Hunnybun' s for breakfast. 

That breakfast ! Ah, that breakfast would have been 
worth anything to a young poet or novelist. The blushes 
and beauty of Angela ; the quiet smiles of Mrs. Hunny- 
bun ; the officious heartiness of Mr. Hunnybun to dispel 
every recollection of cheese and bacon ; Augustus's pride, 
and Quintus and Mira's wonder. But that breakfast is 
over. It was a right pleasant time, spite of a few mistakes 
which will occur in the best-regulated families. But it is 
over, and the Hunnybuns at home are beginning already to 
ponder on still pleasanter times and events yet to be. Good 
luck to them ! 

" And when they next shall go abroad, 
May we be there to see!" 



SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IN THE LIVES OF 
EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 



CHAPTEE L. 



I0VE IN AMBTJSH. 



Me. Joseph Hilyabd was a ricli dyer in one of our large 
manufacturing towns, a plodding, hard-headed man of busi- 
ness, who never lost sight of the main chance but once, and 
that was when he married old Green's daughter, with seven 
thousand pounds to her fortune, instead of his first and his 
real love, Ellen Stretton, who had nothing. He soon found 
out how fatal a mistake he had made, for his wealthy wife 
was an unhappy-tempered woman, who made everybody 
miserable about her. 

Ellen Stretton married, also, two years afterwards, not for 
love, and was not more happy than Hilyard. Her husband, 
whose name was Trevisham, was also a dyer, as hard-headed 
a man as Hilyard, but without his good qualities : he was 
always at law with somebody ; he had a desperate lawsuit 
with Hilyard about the fence of their drying-ground, which 
unfortunately adjoined ; it was but a small thing to quarrel 
about, but, like a rolling snowball, it grew at every turn, 
and in the end brought on his ruin. He lost his lawsuit, 
and then he died, leaving his affairs in a very bad state. 
"When all were wound up, the creditors, out of compassion 





'Ju& 



LOVE-PAS SAGE & IN THE LIVES OF EVEKY-EAY PEOPLE. 425 

to the widow, whom, everybody respected, gave up sufficient 
to ensure he-r and her only childj a daughter, an annuity of 
seventy pounds for her life. 

Hilyard had been a fierce adversary to the husband, and 
she felt a peculiar grief to see herself, in some measure, 
ruined by his means ; — still she was not without comfort, 
even in her depressed circumstances, — she had good health, 
a cheerful disposition, a heart full of love both to G-od and 
man, a beloved daughter, whom, she herself was able to edu- 
cate well, and beyond all, now that poor Mr. Trevisham was 
gone, peace and comfort at her fireside, such as she had 
never known in her most prosperous days. Let nobody 
exclaim at this-, — for it is true that " Better is a dinner of 
herbs with love, than a stalled ox and dissension there- 
with." Many a time did Mrs. Trevisham say Amen to those 
words with her whole soul. 

Hilyard had gained the great lawsuit, and his adversary 
was dead. "There was a triumph for him," people said; 
but he did not exactly find it so. When the man was dead 
and gone, and his drying-grounds added to his own still more 
extensive ones, many a reproachful remembrance of the 
widow and her child came into his mind. His own wife, who 
had been the thorn in his side and the quill-feather in his 
down-pillow for so many years, had in process of time, like 
poor Mr. Trevisham, gone to her long rest, and now he 
thought with himself whether he should not endeavour to 
realize the dream of his youth, and make atonement for the 
wrongs of his after years by marrying the "Widow Trevisham l. 
that is, of course, if he could persuade her to recall the long- 
lost sentiment of former years. 

He though a deal about it ; he had never spoken to her 
for years — in fact it was years now since he had even seen 
her ; for though they dwelt in the same town, he lived in a. 
large square stone house, which a lawyer had built, and which 
he had purchased, in one suburb, and she, since her misfor- 
tunes, as they were called, lived in a little cottage — a very 
little one — in an opposite direction. He questioned, as I 
have said,, whether he should marry her ; someway or other 
the thing itself seemed strange to him, after what had taken 
place, and the thought so often occurred, that perhaps she 
might entertain strong resentment against him, as well as 



426 SOME LOYE-PAS SAGES IN" THE 

that everybody would make a great talk about it ; so that at 
last he decided in his own mind that his marrying days 
were over. 

People saw him buttoned up in his good broad-cloth, 
going steadily about his business and making his fifteen 
hundred a-year, and never for a moment suspected the ro- 
mance which had taken possession of his naturally good and 
affectionate heart. 

One day he took a drive to the little suburban village in 
which the widow lived, and, leaving his chaise at the inn, 
strolled up the lane in which her cottage stood. He had no 
idea of making a call, not the slightest in the world, he only 
wanted to see the place. It was a very small cottage ; two 
gentlewomen, living on seventy pounds a-year, could not 
afford a large house. 

" It cannot be above eight or nine pounds a-year," mused 
he to himself; " a kitchen, a parlour, and two bed-rooms, 
with a little wash-house at the back, that must be all ; but it 
is prodigiously neat, and has a mighty pretty garden ; — Ellen 
was always fond of flowers ;" and with that the sunny, rose- 
scented days of their youth came to his memory bewitch- 
ingly. " They keep a girl, no doubt, to do the housework ; 
they could not afford a servant at full wages," continued his 
musings ; " I wonder if any of their relations help them ? — 
But, poor things, she had so few relations, and none of them 
rich, and he was such a spendthrift that he drained his 
own family — I don't believe there is one that would help 
her ; the Trevishams have not a bit of heart among 
them!" 

So pondered Mr. Hilyard as he walked up the lane ; in a 
while he made a stand, and, turning round, took a steady 
survey of the back of the cottage. There was little to be 
seen but a thick holly-hedge, a green water-butt, the little 
back-kitchen window, the cottage roof, and one chimney. It 
was about the middle of November, in the afternoon, and 
Mrs. Trevisham and her sweet daughter Kitty, then just 
turned fifteen, were sitting at the little parlour fire, the 
daughter reading and the mother at her sewing. Kitty had 
just put on some coal, and the little servant-maid in the 
little kitchen had just broken up her fire and put the kettle 
on for tea ; there was only, as I said, one chimney to the 



LIYES OF EVEEY-DAY PEOPLE. 427 

cottage, and these movements at the two fires had sent the 
smoke curling out of the chimney, which made quite a pic- 
turesque effect against the dull gray November sky. And 
it was at this very smoke which Mr. Joseph Hilyard, with 
his comfortable income of fifteen hundred a-year, now stood 
looking ; he was not, however, noticing the picturesque 
effect, but, in imagination, was picturing to himself the little 
household that was assembled beside the fire from which this 
smoke proceeded. 

You may take my word for it, that Joseph Hilyard, middle- 
aged man and dyer though he was, had a very vivid imagi- 
nation, for the picture which he thus saw warmed his heart 
to its very core ; the broadcloth in which he was enveloped 
was nothing to the warmth of his heart. He walked back 
again past the little green gate which led to the house-door ; 
a little girl was coming up with her milk-can, and, turning 
in at the green gate, knocked at the door. He was a 
wealthy man, as we know, and a girl taking milk to his own 
house would have excited no interest in his mind ; and 
yet he stopped to see who would open the door to take in 
this pennyworth of milk. It was only the little servant- 
girl. 

At the bottom of the little garden he stopped again, and 
looked at the front of the cottage ; the fire that was burning 
in parlour and kitchen cast a glow within, for it was getting 
dusk, and by the parlour- window stood Kitty, reading, for 
she had gone to the window for light. The outline of the 
bent head, and the youthful bust, sent a still warmer glow to 
his heart ; it reminded him of that Ellen Stretton who had 
once been all the world to him. "With hasty steps he then 
returned to the inn, ordered out his chaise, drank a glass of 
negus, and drove home to his large square house, and his 
many servants. 

People talk a deal about "the luxury of doing good." 
Mr. Joseph Hilyard determined that he would enjoy this 
luxury ; but he did not say a word to any one — not a syllable. 
He thought a deal about the cottage fireside and seventy 
pounds a-year. Christmas-day was not far off, and he re- 
membered that people could not have fine Christmas dinners 
with only seventy pounds a-year. Two days before Christmas- 
day, therefore, the carrier's cart stopped at Mrs. Trevisham's 



428 SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IN THE 

cottage, and left, carriage paid, a large hamper. It was 
carried into the little kitchen, and the little servant-maid 
summoned her mistress to open it. 

" Dear me ! what can it be ?" exclaimed Mrs. Trevisham, 
as the girl hastily cut the strings and opened the creaking 
lid of the hamper. " Kitty, come here !" And Kitty came 
instantly out of the parlour with her sewing in her hand, 
which, however, she soon threw down to help in unpacking 
the hamper ; — a turkey, a ham, a dozen ol mince-pies, so 
beautifully packed that not one was broken, a game-pie, such 
almonds and raisins, and delicious fruit for dessert, and a 
dozen of wine I. 

""Who can have sent them ? "What can it mean?" ex- 
claimed both mother and daughter. 

It was long since Mrs. Trevisham had had a regular 
Christmas dinner of her own ; now and then she and her 
daughter were asked out, but not often ; now, however, here 
was a splendid dinner for them, and who must they invite 
to partake of it ? Oh, there were plenty of poor folks who 
should have some of it, — that was soon decided ; and then 
nothing was thought of for the rest of the evening but who 
could have sent this present ? They could not imagine : it 
might be this person and it might be that ; but they hardly 
thought it could be either. They never guessed the right 
person — how, indeed, should they ? 

It was now five years since the first Christmas-dinner 
was sent, and at the same time precisely, for the next four 
years, did the same Carrier's cart bring the same present, 
or slightly varied, to the widow's house. It was a pleasant 
mystery ; it was a real comfort to know that there was some- 
body who cared that much for them. But the delicacies of 
that Christmas provision were not eaten alone by the widow 
and her daughter ; some poor neighbour, some sick woman 
or man, or invalid child, was always a partaker ; and as to 
the wine, Mrs. Trevisham' s little cellar was now never with- 
out a supply. She and her daughter only drank a glass now 
and then, on very extraordinary occasions ; on Christmas-day, 
for instance, when they drank the health of their unknown 
benefactor ; but the sick poor of that populous neighbour- 
hood had many a vial-bottle filled from her store, which often 
did more good than physic. Indeed, dear reader, I cannot 



LIVES OF EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 429 

tell you all the good which these Christmas presents did to 
Mrs. Trevisham and her poor neighbours. 

One day, when it was getting rather dusk, Mr. Hilyard 
took another walk up that lane. A gentleman overtook 
him ; it was the good parish doctor ; they walked on to- 
gether, and fell into discourse. Mr. Hilyard was one of 
those rich men who did very little actual good with their 
money. The fact was, he had never thought about it ; he 
subscribed to the Bible Society and Foreign Missions, and 
the Tract Association, and, as he paid his workpeople's 
wages regularly, he thought he did all that was required 
from him. He was a stranger, of course, to the doctor, and 
they began to talk about the poor, of whom this good man 
knew so much. He said how much more the wealthy ought 
to do for the poor than they commonly do ; that it was often 
those in straitened circumstances who were their greatest 
benefactors. And then he proved this by saying how much a 
lady and her daughter who lived in that very lane, and whose 
income was under a hundred a-year, did for their poor neigh- 
bours ; how the mother visited them, and was a friend under 
all circumstances ; and when they were ill sent them the 
best of wine, which was often the means of their recovery, 
though he questioned if either she or her daughter drank 
wine themselves, for they had been the means of establishing 
a Temperance Society, which had done a deal of good. He said 
that this Mrs. Trevisham was the kindest and most Christian 
woman he knew, and that it was a pity that she had not the 
means of doing all the good she might ; and her daughter, 
he said, was a pattern to all young ladies ; he believed that 
she and her mother were obliged to make out their income 
by doing needlework, but, for all that, the daughter found 
time to teach in the Ragged School, which never would have 
been established but for her, and that she herself gave half- 
a-guinea to its funds. 

Mr. Joseph Hilyard pulled out his large well-filled green 
silk purse, and gave the doctor five pounds for this school, 
which donation he said must be put down as from afriend ; and 
then taking leave of the good man, he turned back and walked 
slowly down the lane. Again the cottage chimney smoked, 
and again his heart was as warm as if he had sat by its fire. 
He was filled with all sorts of grand schemes of beneficence ; 



430 SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IS THE 

he would do — he did not know what, for such excellent 
people as these. 

While he was thus vaguely thinking he approached the 
cottage ; the door opened, and out came Kitty Trevishain in 
her dark merino dress, plaid shawl, and straw bonnet trimmed 
with dark-blue ribbon. She looked at Mr. Hilyard as she 
came out, and then walked briskly on as if she had business 
in hand. She was a sweet, bright-looking creature, with the 
kindest eyes that were ever set in a human countenance. 
"When she came within sight of the parlour- window she 
looked towards it, smiled sweetly, and nodded ; Mr. Hilyard 
looked also, and there stood the mother, in a plain cap and 
black dress, and nodded affectionately to her daughter. 

This little circumstance expressed a great deal ; mother 
and daughter were all the world to each other : there was 
the most perfectly good understanding between them, and 
the last look, even for the absence of an hour or two, was full 
of affectionate intelligence. 

She walked on briskly, and he followed ; she had such a 
neat, pretty figure. She walked uncommonly well, and had 
a remarkably pretty foot and ancle, as he could see when she 
held up her dress where the road was wet. 

" I wish I were a young man for her sake !" thought Mr. 
Hilyard to himself; " now I wonder who she will marry ?" 
and with that, all at once, a grand idea floated into his mind. 
He would send for his nephew, Edward Grey, and adopt 
him as his son, and he should marry this good and pretty 
daughter of widow Trevisham ! It was a splendid idea. 
This nephew was the son of his only sister, who had married 
a poor schoolmaster in the country. She had often asked 
him to do something for this her eldest son ; he was said to 
be a fine scholar, a very gentlemanly young man, of excel- 
lent principles, and he was now six-and-twenty. He could 
not think how he had never done anything for him before ; 
he felt all at once as if he had been a hard-hearted wretch ; 
never, till that day, had he given a penny even to a Bagged 
School. Well, he would turn over a new leaf now ; he 
would send for his nephew, get him married to this poor, 
but good girl, and then he should no longer be ashamed of 
himself. 

Little did sweet Kitty Trevisham know the schemes 



LIVES OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 43'* 

which were working in the head of the respectable gentleman 
who was following her. She was going to the Bagged School 
for a couple of hours that evening, and she was thinking 01 
nothing but her poor scholars. 

In a month's time Edward Grey was at his uncle's, as 
handsome a young man as his mother had described him, 
with an open countenance, and a great deal of decision in 
his manner. He was one of those men who in reality do 
not need any one to help them on in life ; the elements of 
success are in themselves : and men of this character are not 
such as can have a path chalked out for them by another. 
Joseph Hilyard found his nephew a very different person to 
what he expected. He fancied that he would be pliable and 
extremely grateful, and that he should open his plans to him 
with respect to Kitty Trevisham, immediately, but there was 
an independence about him which it did not seem safe to 
interfere with, and almost an indifference about the large 
income of which, if he pleased, he might be the heir, so that 
his uncle felt pretty sure that if he all at once revealed 
his designs, his nephew would turn restive on his hands. 
With all this there was so much manliness and straight- 
forward honesty of character about him, that he could not 
help feeling respect for him. " Besideswhich," as the foreman 
said, "he took very kindly to the business," and seemed at 
once so thoroughly to understand it, that there was no doubt 
of his becoming a most valuable assistant, if not partner. 

They were, in fact, two of the most excellent men that 
ever met ; yet, in some respects, they were so similar in 
character, that while they remained in any degree strangers 
to each other, they worked ill together. Edward Grey was 
unlike any person with whom his uncle had come in contact ; 
as yet he had been sole king and master of his world ; he had 
no idea but of remaining so, and nowhere was a young man 
whom he had introduced into it, carrying everything his own 
way, and that with the utmost quietness and apparent self- 
complacency. He never asked his uncle's leave for what he 
did, and yet he established directly a Temperance Society 
among the men, and set about forming a Mechanics' Institute 
for the whole town. Mr. Hilyard, as we said, was full of all 
sorts of grand benevolent schemes a short time before, and 
approved of Temperance Societies, and schools for the people, 



432 SOME LOVE-PASSAGES O" THE 

yet now he was angry with his nephew for zealously co- 
operating in them. Perhaps he was displeased that men of 
influence in the place — great philanthropists with whom he 
had never had anything to do, should seem to court his 
nephew's acquaintance as they did, stranger though he was 
to them all ; it was a sort of tacit reproof to himself, and it 
annoyed him. But let the fault be where it would, the 
uncle and the nephew did not get on so comfortably to- 
gether as they ought to have done, when a little circum- 
stance seemed, for the moment, to be the one drop to the 
full cup of the uncle's displeasure, and made it overflow 
abundantly. 

He had, immediately on his coming, made his nephew a 
present of a handsome gold watch and chain, and this the 
young man lost one day when he was bathing. It was a 
most distressing thing to him, and he could only surmise 
that some dexterous thief had stolen it from his clothes as 
they lay on the river's bank. He said nothing to his uncle 
of his loss, for so grieved was he to have failed, as he felt he 
had done, in winning his affection, that he was unwilling 
still further to displease him by this apparent carelessness. 
In his heart, Edward Grey regarded his uncle as a second 
father ; he would have died to have served him ; but he was 
not one of those who could make professions, and as his 
uncle seemed cold and distant, he determined quietly to go 
on fulfilling every duty, trusting to time and circumstances 
for making all straight between them. 

The watch had been lost a week when it came to his uncle's 
knowledge, and that accidentally. A person came to the 
counting-house where they both were, and asked whether 
Mr. Edward Grey had not lost something. "My watch," 
said the young man joyfully ; " a gold watch and chain ; I 
lost them a week ago." 

His uncle was astonished and enraged : " "Was the watch, 
then, of so little value that he could lose it and say nothing 
about it ?" In twenty different ways he could look at this 
affair and be made angry by it. He had never lost his own 
watch, and if he had, he should have been at some trouble to 
have found it, etc., etc. 

Grey thought his uncle unreasonable in being thus angry 
without hearing him say one word in his own defen e. It 



LIYES OF EVEET-DAT PEOPLE. 433 

seemed to him that there was much more said than the oc- 
casion warranted, and for that reason he was silent, and by 
this means his uncle did not know how much he had suf- 
fered, nor what pains he had, in truth, taken for the recovery 
of his loss. 

The uncle was not only very angry, but very much 
grieved ; in his anger he declared it was the last present 
that he ever would make him, and yet, the next moment, he 
threw him ten sovereigns, and told him to go and see if he 
could get back his watch for that money, — which he did not 
believe. Grey took the money thus ungraciously given, and 
went out with the man who said he was sent by the person 
who had found the watch. 

Mr. Joseph Hilyard would have been no little astonished, 
could he have seen his nephew conducted to Mrs. Trevisham's 
cottage. It was a lovely afternoon, towards the close of 
summer ; the little garden was as full of flowers as it could 
be, and jasmine and roses peeped in and clustered round the 
open parlour- window, and there sat Mrs. Trevisham in her 
mourning, and Kitty in a pretty pink dress and black silk 
apron ; her lovely dark brown hair fastened up in its simple 
knot, and no single ornament about her, excepting her own 
dear smiles and affectionate eyes, looking just like a rose, 
and every bit as sweet. She told Edward Grey, who 
from the first moment he saw her was quite in a bewilder- 
ment of delight, how she and the servant-maid set off one 
morning, at five o'clock, to look for mushrooms in the mea- 
dows, because her mother was so fond of them ; and how she 
found, under a sod, which seemed to have been cut out for 
the purpose, a gold watch and chain : she said she was so 
astonished that she did not know what to do, and as she 
thought that most likely some thief had hidden it there, she 
brought it away ; that there was no name in it excepting the 
maker's, and that was a London name ; that she and her 
mother considered what had better be done. They thought 
of advertising, and then it occurred to them that she might 
enquire of some of the watchmakers in the town, if the watch 
had ever been in their hands ; that she did so, and soon 
found one who told her that he had sold it only a few weeks 
before to Mr. Hilyard, for his nephew, and that to him it 
belonged : and, in confirmation, he showed her an advertise- 



434 SOME LOVE-PASSAGES I2T THE 

ment in the paper, offering a reward for this very watch. 
And now here it was ; and it was impossible for Kitty to say 
what pleasure she had in restoring it to him. 

The watch had become of ten times its former value as he 
received it from her hand. How he longed to kiss that 
hand! He was the last man in the world to make fine 
speeches, but his countenance expressed something of what 
he felt. And then Mrs. Trevisham began to say that in 
former times she had known Mr. Hilyard ; that unfortu- 
nately there had been a lawsuit between her late husband 
and him, but that when she was young she had thought 
very highly of him. Grey said that his uncle was the best 
man living : that he had given him the watch, but that was 
nothing to his having taken him into the business, which was 
a great thing for him, who was poor, and the eldest of a 
large family. Mrs. Trevisham had evident pleasure in hear- 
ing anything to his advantage ; and greatly astonished the 
uncle would have been could he have heard all that his 
nephew said in his praise. 

Kitty went on with her sewing, and the mother and he 
talked a great deal. He sat with the watch in his hand, 
and the wonder is, that he did not commit some extrava- 
gance or other, he felt so inconceivably happy. He said 
that the thief who had stolen the watch and hidden it there, 
never imagined the blessing he was conferring upon him. 
He did not explain his meaning ; but Mrs. Trevisham knew 
very well what he meant, and perhaps Kitty did, for she 
blushed as she went on with her sewing. He had offered, in 
his advertisement, ten pounds for the recovery of his watch, 
but he never thought of offering it either to the mother or 
daughter, — he would much more likely have offered his 
heart and his life ; however, he left a handsome present for 
the man who had fetched him, and who was a poor gardener 
with a large family ; and after he had taken tea with them, 
and walked in the little garden, and helped Kitty to tie up 
the carnations, he took his leave, promising to visit them 
again before long. 

If his watch had been suddenly encircled with diamonds, 
it could not have been more precious. His uncle told him, 
angrily, he hoped he would not lose it again. There was no 
danger of that. 



LIVES OP ETEET-DAT PEOPLE. 4.35 

This affair of the watch did not tend to a better under- 
standing between uncle and nephew, and spite of all Edward 
Grey's assiduity in the business, he could not find the way 
into his uncle's affections. 

"There is something cold about him," said Hilyard to 
himself; "a very good young man he is, there's no doubt 
of that — but I hate your good people : he is not the husband 
for my Kitty — after all, I shall be forced to have her my- 
self;" and with that he laughed amazingly. He thought a 
deal about both Kitty and her mother, and one day he was 
at the trouble of going to the Ragged School, where he 
thought that he might have some talk with her. There she 
was, as cheerful as a lark, and as fresh as a flower, among 
the little ragged urchins, and the very expression of their 
faces, and the tones of their voices, were changed as they 
approached her. The master of the school had not words 
enough to praise her, and Kitty had no idea — not the least 
in the world ! — that it was for her sake that this good man 
now Visited the school, and left behind him a second 
donation. 

" How odd it will be," thought Mrs. Trevisham, the day 
after Edward Grey had declared his passion, and been 
accepted, " for Kitty to be Mr. Hilyard's niece ; I wonder 
what he will say, and whether he has forgotten those old 
times. Edward thinks he will be pleased, though he is so 
rich ; but then Edward is young and in love, and I know that 
he once thought a deal about money." 

It was Edward Grey's intention candidly to tell his uncle 
that he had fallen in love with a pretty, penniless girl, some 
day, when he was in a good humour; and it was his uncle's 
intention also to tell his nephew all about sweet Kitty 
Trevisham, some day when they were talking about schools 
for the people, and such things, for then he thought he 
should be able to interest him about the young teacher at 
the Eagged School. He fancied that he could draw a very 
pretty picture of her in the midst of her forlorn group, and 
this, he thought, considering his nephew's philanthropic 
propensities, would very likely make a deep impression upon 
him. 

Summer and autumn were now over. Christmas was 
approaching. There had been, as one may say, a cessation 



4db SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IN THE 

of hostilities for some time between uncle and nephew, — they 
were gradually and silently approaching each other in the 
spirit of mutual good faith, — still neither of them had found 
the propitious moment for which they were waiting ; and 
each was beginning to like the other so well, that they 
almost feared to make the momentous disclosure, lest it 
should throw them back into that state of alienation which 
had been so painful to both. 

Edward was a frequent, though secret, visitor at Mrs. 
Trevisham's, and the long history of their former troubles 
was familiar to him. He also knew of the five years' 
Christmas present, and of all their fruitless conjectures as 
to who their unknown friend could be. 

" You will dine with us, Edward, on Christmas-day ?" 
said the mother : " I have no doubt but we shall have our 
usual dinner, — but at all events you will come ?" Edward 
promised, and went home determined that this should be 
the last visit he would pay to this beloved family without 
his uncle's knowledge ; for he would make an opportunity, if 
he did not find one, that very evening. The good uncle, too 
full of the delight of having sent to the widow a still more 
bountifully supplied hamper than usual, together with a let- 
ter, of which we shall speak anon, sat that evening in his easy 
house-coat and slippers by the parlour fire, the very image 
of good humour, as his nephew entered. The fire burned 
brightly, so did the lamp : tea came in, and the urn bubbled 
and hissed ; and, though there were only two men to par- 
take of this meal, which seems so peculiarly to require the 
presence of woman, yet it would have been difficult to find 
a better image of comfort than it presented. 

JSTow, thought the nephew, I will tell him. 

Now, thought the uncle, I will make the attack. ' Never- 
theless the tea was taken in silence. 

" Uncle/' at length began the young man. 

" My dear fellow," interrupted the uncle; "but go on — 
what were you going to say ?" 

" I beg your pardon, my dear sir ! after you," said Edward, 
with a ceremonious manner very unusual to him. 

" Well, my dear lad," began the uncle in good earnest, 
" I may as well tell you at first as at last — I have often wished 
to tell you — I want to see you married." 






LIVES OF EYERY-DAY PEOPLE. 437 

" Very strange," said the nephew, joyfully ; " but I was 
just going to tell you that I am very much disposed to get 
married." 

" What, the deuce ! you have no girl in your eye, have 
you ?" asked he, as the idea struck him that perhaps his 
nephew might be engaged to some girl at his native place. 

" Yes I have," replied Edward. 

" "What the dickens could make you think of such a 
thing ? How do I know who you have chosen — what right 
had you to choose for yourself?" 

" Nobody had so great a right to choose for me as my- 
self," said Edward, astonished. 

" Sir," returned his uncle, raising himself in his chair 
and looking very angry, " I had chosen a wife for you 
before I had seen you. Don't interrupt me, sir," said he, 
seeing his nephew about to speak ; " and I should not have 
sent for you if I had not wanted a husband for this good 
little girl. It was no merit of yours that made me adopt 
you, but my esteem and admiration for her ; and I have 
made up my mind, sir, either you shall marry her, or she 
shall be my heir !" And with this the uncle crossed his legs, 
and threw himself back in his chair in a very determined 
and dogmatical manner. 

" Very extraordinary !" said the nephew, in a tone in 
which his wounded feeling was very evident : " but if that 
be the case, I must do the best for myself that I can : at 
the same time I must say that your ideas are arbitrary : I 
knew nothing of these conditions, and I came to you in 
good faith. I wished to love you as a father, and to serve 
you as an obedient son ; and fathers do not commonly im- 
pose wives upon their sons ; besides," added he, cheerfully, 
as a new idea struck him, " how do you know that the 
young lady you have done me the honour of soliciting for 
me would like me?" 

" She would," said the uncle ; " she's a good girl ; one 
just of your own sort ; fond of Temperance Societies, and 
Kagged Schools, and such things. I don't know one like 
her." 

" "Well, sir," said the nephew, with half a smile on his 
lips, " if these be her recommendations, the girl that I wish 



438 SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IN THE 

to maxe my wife loves Temperance Societies and Ragged 
Schools also." 

" The devil take her !" said the uncle, in great wrath : for 
all at once he fancied it must be the daughter of some of 
those philanthropic people who had been so assiduously 
courting his nephew's acquaintance, and of whom he knew 
nothing, and taking up his bed-candlestick, he went to his 
room without another word. 

The next morning, his uncle, in a much kinder voice than 
he expected, told him that he had made an engagement for 
him to dine out with him on Christmas-day, which was on 
the morrow, and therefore he begged that he would be in 
readiness at the hoar which he named. Edward was en- 
gaged already, — he told his uncle so, and that in a voice of 
as much conciliation as possible. Another one drop to the 
full cup of his uncle's displeasure : and the cup as usual 
flowed over. 

"We said that a letter accompanied the hamper to Mrs. 
Trevisham's this year : it did so ; and a letter, which occa- 
sioned some excitement and anxiety. It said that the friend 
who had had for some years the pleasure of sending this 
small present, proposed to eat the Christmas dinner with 
them on this occasion, and would also take the liberty of 
bringing a young friend with him. The hand-writing was 
unknown to them ; it was a very different hand to that 
which had been familiar to Mrs. Trevisham in former days, 
Of course they would be very glad to see their kind, un- 
known friend, and his companion ; yet still there was an 
undefinable anxiety in the bottom of their hearts as to who 
it would turn out to be. It was somebody who wished 
them well, no doubt ; they only hoped that it would prove 
to be pne from whom " they would like to receive a favour." 
"We always feel anxious when a mystery, however small, is 
about to be solved. At all events they were glad that 
Edward Grey would be there ; and, let the unknown friend 
turn out to be whoever he might, they agreed that Kitty's 
engagement to Edward Grey should be made known to him. 

The unknown friend, who had sent much more than his 
usual supply on this occasion, proposed to be with them for 
dinner at five. Edward Grey, however, was there by two : 



LIVES OP EVEBY-DA.Y PEOPLE. 430 

and great were the pains which he and Kitty took to make 
the little parlour look as pretty as possible, with its red- 
berried holly, ivy, and other evergreens. Though Mrs. Tre- 
visham had only seventy pounds a-year, and the parlour was 
very small, yet this was one of the nicest little Christmas 
dinners that ever was set out or cooked. Mrs. Trevisham 
had paid a neighbour who had been cook in a great family to 
come in for the day ; and as to the table, it looked beauti- 
fully : there was a fine damask table-cloth on it with nap- 
kins as white as snow, and some handsome plate, which had 
belonged to the family in its better days, and bright glass 
and sparkling water, and hock and claret which had come 
among the good things in the last hamper. Bless me ! 
there was dinner enough for a dozen people, and yet the 
unknown guest could only expect four ! Mrs. Trevisham, 
however, expected five. 

It grew dusk, and then dark : the blinds were drawn 
down : it was nearly five, and the hearts of Mrs. Trevisham 
and her daughter beat anxiously : so, no doubt, would Ed- 
ward Grey's, had he seen his uncle driving along the road 
towards the house in a cab, and in a very bad humour, 
although he meant to make himself very agreeable to the 
two ladies. 

The cab stopped at the little garden gate, and the house- 
door opened. It was a very undignified house ; one was 
obliged to go through the kitchen into the parlour, but there 
was no avoiding it ; so the little maid-servant stood with the 
door wide open, and Mrs. Trevisham saw that there was 
only one guest instead of two, and that he was rather a stout 
gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in a great coat with a 
shawl round his neck. She had not the least idea who he 
was. She felt considerably excited, and he, we must confess, 
was rather so himself ; and yet, as I have said twice before, 
he had fifteen hundred a-year, and he had paid for the dinner 
which he now came to eat. 

Mrs. Trevisham stood at the parlour-door to receive him : 
he took off his hat in the kitchen, and stood with his un- 
covered and bald head before her. She saw at once who it 
was, — her own old lover, the adversary of her husband ; the 
uncle of her daughter's lover. 

" I feel myself rather in an awkward position, my dear 



440 SOME LOVE-PASSAGES IN THE 

madam," he began. But no sooner had he uttered these 
words, than Edward Grey darted from the side of Kitty at 
the parlour fire, and seizing his hand, exclaimed, " God 
bless you, my dear uncle, is it you ?" 

" And is this you, Edward ? Good heavens ! how came 
you here ?" 

" I never was so glad in all my life," said Edward, helping 
his uncle off with his coat, — for now a great light began to 
dawn into his mind. "I declare I don't know how to 
express my pleasure ; to think of meeting you under this 
roof, of all places in the world !" 

" And to think of meeting you here !" returned the uncle. 
"You must excuse me, my dear madam," said he, turning 
to Mrs. Trevisham : and he then sat down in a large chair 
by the fire, feeling almost overcome. Mrs. Trevisham was 
hardly less so. 

" My good lady," at length he said, " I feel now as if I 
had done very wrong ; I ought not to have been so abrupt. 
I have done the whole thing clumsily." 

Mrs. Trevisham said truly that it gave her extreme 
pleasure to find that Mr. Hilyard had been their friend for 
so many years. 

It was now EJitty's turn to come forward ; for she recog- 
nised in him the kind visitor of the .Ragged School. 

His eyes glistened as he spoke to her, and then Edward 
was at her side : an irresistible power compelled him to 



" Uncle," said he, — and as he spoke he took Kitty's hand — 
" we had made up our minds to be candid to-night, let the 
guest be who he might ; and you, above all, have a right to 
know our secret. This is my affianced wife ; let us have 
your blessing !'' 

The uncle took the two clasped hands in his, and pressed 
them warmly : but he said not a word. 

Dinner was placed on the table. He still sat with their 
two hands in his : he wiped two great tears from his eyes, 
and then, in the cheerfullest voice possible, said that now 
they would go to dinner, for that he was desperately hungry, 
and after dinner they would talk about these things. 

After dinner, when the dessert was on the table, how 
merry the uncle was at the expense of his nephew ! And he 



LIVES OP EYEET-DAT PEOPLE. 441 

told how he had "by chance" met with the doctor, and 
heard about Kitty and the Bagged School, and how he 
thought first of all of making her an offer himself, and then 
he thought of sending for his nephew ; and then he warned 
Kitty that his nephew was a very obstinate young man, and 
that he would not be guided by his good old uncle, who meant 
so well by him. And then Edward had to tell him how it was 
the losing of his watch which had brought him acquainted 
with" Kitty, and how happy they had been ever since with 
only one drawback, and that was, that his uncle was such a 
hasty-tempered positive man, who would not allow his 
nephew, who wished to be so dutiful to him, the right to 
choose a wife for himself ; and how this said wicked uncle 
had nearly broken his nephew's heart by quarrelling with 
him about his intended wife. 

There was a deal of laughter and merriment, though it 
was only a party of four ; nor was there a Christmas party, 
high or low, throughout England, where there was more 
true love and kind-heartedness to be found. 

After this day the course of this true-love was so exceed- 
ingly smooth and sunshiny, that it certainly would have 
become monotonous, had not Mr. Joseph Hilyard insisted 
on a wedding by way of variety. So the wedding was held in 
May. 

The young people lived in a small, but handsome house, 
not far from the uncle's large square one. Mrs. Trevisham 
still kept on the cottage, though she was not much there, 
for Kitty and her husband insisted on her being mostly with 
them. Very often, too, Mr. Hilyard was there \ and as he 
had of late grown so wise as not to care for what people 
might say when a good action was in question, he made up 
his mind to persuade the widow Trevisham to give up her 
cottage altogether, and remove to his large square house in 
the character of his wife. The wedding dinner and the 
Christmas dinner were eaten together, on the last 25th of 
December, 



THE HUNT. 



CHAPTEE 1. 



HOW NIMBUS LIVED AMONG HIS TENANTS. 

The days of chivalry are over ! Thank God for it ! If there 
were ever any days in the world for whose termination the 
people of all nations might pray, they were the days of 
chivalry. "With pretence of redressing wrongs, they were 
full of wrongs and outrages that make the blood freeze 
in reading of them. "With the proud boast of honour, the 
sense of real honour was lost. With the gallant boast of 
courtesy to women, what violence and abductions of women 
then abounded ! With crosses and Christian symbols em- 
blazoned on their chivalrous shields, how every principle of 
Christianity, peace, love, and mutual sympathy, were trodden 
under foot ! All that remains to us from those times are the 
ruins of robbers' nests, and institutions which, for the good 
of society, ought to have been in ruins ages ago. 

On the top of all hills all over Europe the grim vestiges 
of castles bear witness to the trade of the knights and Earls 
of the ages of chivalry. The Germans gave them the plain 
name that designates their true character — Raub-Ritter, 
robber knights. But not only in Germany, but over all 
Europe, did these strongholds of titled robbers abound. 
What crimes are linked to the memory of all those places ! 
What dungeons are therein, some with holes only from the 
top, through which the victims were let down to perish of 



THE HUNT. ±>3 

the slow agonies of death ! What racks and instruments of 
torture did they contain ! What deep abysses with wheels 
armed with scythes, and with other horrors, remain yet, into 
which the wretched were plunged, and dashed and crashed, 
and crushed and carved to pieces ! Behold thy monuments, 
O chivalry ! and let no one wonder that we rejoice that thou 
art gone ! But art thou gone ? are there no other monu- 
ments left ? 

There are no occasions in which the features of ancient 
feudality show more fully than in the atrocities of the Game 
Laws. George Sand, in the story of the Mauprats, has 
shewn to what a late period in France the savagery of the 
robber knights continued ; and they who are not familie r 
with English rural life can have no conception how much of 
it remains still even in tins country. It is amazing what a 
curse these G-ame Laws are in the midst of us. It is 
amazing how they turn the noblest hearts into flint — how 
they corrupt the blood of the best — how men, otherwise 
humane and enlightened, are very Neros and Caligulas where 
game is concerned ; nay, even women, and young women, 
who have not only gone to a Christian church almost every 
Sunday of their lives, and prayed that their trespasses might 
be forgiven as they forgive those who trespass against them, 
but have read whole wagon-loads of romances, and shed 
hogsheads of tender tears over them, and the sympathies they 
have awakened for virtue in distress, — even these, where game 
and poachers are concerned, are bitter as the north blast 
itself. It is not long since we heard a young lady lament- 
ing over a tame fawn that a blood-hound of theirs had killed ; 
and when asked whether they had not the dog sent away, 
she exclaimed, " Oh no, indeed ! Why he is worth his weight 
in gold in catching poachers. He will seize a man by the 
throat, and pull him to the earth in a moment." 

In this amiable young lady's eyes poachers were vermin ; 
fawns only drew tears when their throats were torn by 
bloodhounds ! Let the very memory of institutions perish 
that thus harden the hearts of the future mothers of 
Englishmen ! 

3n the middle of England, lived, not long ago, a mighty 
hunter. He had various old estates and old houses. In 
person he was a very fine animal, tall, well-built, of hand- 



444 THE HUNT. 

some features, and surprising agility. His life, which 
from his boyhood had been spent very much amongst the 
woods and fields, had given him a vigour and elasticity 
like that of the ancient heroes, who were glorified and 
deified because they could knock every body down. Neither 
had his education been neglected, — so far as money and col- 
leges could educate him. He had been at Eton and Cambridge, 
and could quote Latin and talk poetry and sentiment to the 
ladies. All the ladies admired him to distraction, because 
he was so very handsome, and because, or although — we will 
not be uncharitable enough to say which — he ruined every 
country girl he came near. We don't say that he seduced 
them, for simple seduction was a mere trifle with him : he 
did as he liked, and regarded the gallows as only for vulgar 
fellows. As for our squire, or Nimrod, or Nimbus — for we 
must have a name for him, so let it be the last — as for 
Nimbus, he was a jolly fellow. He kept his horses and hounds 
and a brave table ; he galloped over the whole country with 
half the country at his heels — gentlemen, farmers, all sorts 
of men mounted and unmounted. His father had left him 
plenty of money and plenty of acres, and he had plenty of 
strength and animal spirits, and he seemed resolved to live 
and spend. He ran riot, and indulged all the huge animal in 
every animal propensity. He ate, he drank, he sang, he 
swore, he got into debt — and then married himself out of it 
again. He married — what ? a fool, a vulgar woman, a creature 
like himself ? No ! one of the most gentle and intellectual 
creatures in the country. "Why did she marry him ? because 
he was such a fine, handsome, jolly fellow, and because, as 
she afterwards said, she was bewitched. 

Well! he broke her heart, just as he would break any 
thing else that he came near; just as he would break a 
hedge, a pale, a horse, or an empty bottle. Such women 
should not marry such men. Why do they ? 

Nimbus spent his whole life in pursuit of game of some 
kind. In the autumn and winter he was shooting and hunt- 
ing ; in the spring and summer he went into the North, trout 
and salmon fishing. He had his eye always on some woman 
to ruin, or his ears were regaled by his creatures with the 
reports of such ; and all his spare time was spent in hunting 
weasels, polecats, and the like, with his keepers, and above 



THE HTT2TT. 445 

all in lying in wait for poachers. He had a nice band of 
pretty fellows who were always on the watch for these 
poachers, and with guns and stout little flails, that they 
could carry in their pockets, and one stroke of which would 
crack a man's skull as completely as a hammer would crack 
a walnut. 

Such was Nimbus in his best days ; and, besides all these 
pursuits, he soldiered a little in the Yeomanry Cavalry. He 
did not like that much, for though the mess was good, and he 
got very drunk at it, there was no flogging ; and a great many 
fellows who, as suspected poachers, or as sturdy boxers that 
had thrashed him for insults to their sweethearts, he longed 
most sincerely to flog. 

But withal Nimbus was pious. He went to church every 
Sunday, except when he was too drunk over night, and 
made all his servants, cottagers, and tenants, go. He sup- 
ported the church as a valuable institution that supported 
the state, which again made nobles and squires, magistrates, 
and good laws against poachers, encroachers, threateners of 
assaults, and the like. 

He had, it would seem, a conscience of some kind — but 
of what we cannot pretend to tell. It must have been a 
very good one, for it never troubled him at all. He was 
always jolly, always on the best terms with the parson who 
was the most constant follower of his hounds, and the most 
merry guest at his table. Nimbus lived as many of his 
ancestors had lived before him. He was a wild fellow, the 
gentry said ; but then, what a constitution, and what an 
estate ! Young gentlemen like him would have their way ! 
There were a good number of the young farmers on his 
property that were also zealous partisans of Nimbus, spite 
of his running over their corn and crashing down their 
hedges. As to these things, why, what squire did not do 
so ? But then it was not every squire who made his young 
tenants his pot companions, and liked to have them crashing 
over their hedges with him. These young men served in 
his troop of yeomanry, attended his hunts, defended his 
character at market and the public-house, and, as far as they 
durst, imitated him in his dress, his oaths, and his tally- 
hoing. 

Now amongst these was George Wagstaff. George's 



446 



THE HUNT. 



father had a farm within half a mile of the hall. It had 
been in the family three generations. George's father was 
a quiet man, who looked after his business, never went any- 
where but to market and to church, and seldom came in the 
squire's way. "When he did he took off his hat very respect- 
fully, and answered any questions very simply, and there 
was an end to it. He passed for a very still, innocent sort 
of man, and his wife for a very good, superior, and sensible 
farmer's wife. Besides Greorge they had one daughter, Jane, 
who had been at a boarding-school, and was said to be hand- 
some. As for that, Greorge was a tall, clever, and handsome 
fellow, and a great favourite of the squire's. He was a 
famous judge of horses, cattle, and dogs. He cut a fine 
figure in the troop, and was a zealous pursuer of poachers as 
well as of foxes. Greorge' s great friend was the only son of 
the miller of the Abbey Mill, Michael Corden. Lt was said 
that Greorge paid his addresses to Betsey Corden, Michael's 
sister, who, next to his own sister, was said to be the hand- 
somest girl in the parish. 

Certain it was, that the Wagstaffs and Cordens were 
great friends. They were always going to and fro between 
each other's houses, which lay on each side of a great wood, 
called Eaddig's Park, at about a mile distance. The Park 
stretched over some hundred of acres, covering the summit 
of a hill that was seen far off into the country, and down 
which descended a wild woody glen, along which the stream 
ran that filled the Abbey mill-dam, and turned the Abbey 
mill. 

The farmhouse of the Wagstaffs was on the flat of 
the same high country on which stood the hall, amongst 
its old woods and moss-grown walls, courts and out- 
buildings. The farm was a good farm, and called the Eeeves 
Farm, and the old farmhouse the Eeeves. It was a plain, 
but good, old-fashioned house, with capital out-buildings, 
and orchard and garden. It had a look of prosperity about 
it. There were ample sheds and fold-yards for cattle, with 
straw racks and turnip troughs for feeding cattle in the 
winter, and carts, wagons, and ploughs in abundance under 
cover. Huge barns bore testimony of the extent of the 
farm, and a steam-engine chimney showed, as did the various 
implements, that modern improvements were adopted there. 



THE HUNT. 447 

There was no lack of cattle, horses in the stable, or poultry 
in the yard. Mrs. Corden prided herself on her poultry, 
geese, turkeys, and the like ; on her pigs and calves. No one 
shewed at the co mtry-town market finer ducks, geese, and 
pullets than she, or more numerous eggs and young pigeons. 

On the other hand, the Corden' s mill was a piece of an- 
tiquity. It was one of those mills down in a most retired 
valley, buried in woods, which are so often found near 
monastic remains. It was supposed to have been the Abbey 
mill for seven hundred years. It had ground corn for 
generations of monks ; and when the monkery became 
abolished, and the property of the family which still in- 
herited it, it continued to grind for them and all their 
tenants, as well as for a good part of the neighbourhood. 
High banks hung with ancient wood, and upland fields, 
farmed by the Cor dens, shut it in. The large mill-dam 
above the house, with its thick screen of fruit trees, was a 
beautiful object, with its island, its flock of geese and ducks 
and its water hens, that went to and fro amongst them with 
a flirting motion. JNot far off, but quite hidden from the 
house or mill, stood the ruins of the ancient abbey ; and 
fine ruins they were, now beautiful with hanging branches 
of wild roses, and with trees that had grown up in the midst 
of them, besides certain very ancient yews that stood in the 
cemetry. 

The Cordens were a peculiarly quiet and hospitable 
family. They consisted of the same number as the Wag- 
staffs — father, mother, son, and daughter. As we have said, 
it was generally settled that there was to be an exchange of 
daughters between the families ; and that was all the change 
that was likely to take place till the elder generation went 
to their rest, and left the ground to their children and 
grand-children. 

Between the Abbey mill and the Eeeves the road lay 
through Eaddig's Park. It was one of those deeply worn, 
uneven cart tracks that have been the works of centuries, 
and lay deep between steep banks, and overhung by trees. 
These banks were every spring covered with violets and 
primroses, and every summer thick with hanging wild 
flowers of sundry kinds. It was a cool and somewhat damp 
way ; but there was also a foot-path, giving many delicious 



448 THE HTJNT. 

and picturesque views, and which led by a very short diverg- 
ence to what was called the Abbot's "Well, a most beautiful 
spring, issuing out from the foot of a steep bank, beneath 
an ancient crab -tree, whose ivied drapery hung in heavy 
masses from its boughs, and the crystal stream thence 
taking its way down the green grassy valley in rapid bril- 
liancy. Hither people often came from great distances 
on account of the reputed virtue of the water ; seats were 
cut in the bank of sandstone, equally agreeable to the 
weary invalid or lingering lovers. 

The Wagstaffs and the Cordens were frequent passers 
along this path. By it the young Cordens walked to 
church, while the old ones drove in their taxed cart along 
the lower road. At a cross road on the hill they often fell 
in with the Wagstaffs, and walked on in company to the 
church, and back also to the Wagstaffs, where on Sunday the 
Cordens often stayed to spend the afternoon. 

Everything seemed to promise that the families would be 
rooted down on their respective homesteads as firmly, for 
the next generation, as they had been for many past ones. 
Young George Wagstaff in particular was, as we have said, 
a great favourite of the squire's. He frequented his hunt, 
often shot with him, gave his judgment in the purchase of 
hunters, and could lend a hand to secure a batch of poachers. 
His mother, while she was glad that he should stand well 
with his landlord, was not, however, without her fears for his 
morals. Many a secret and solemn warning did she give 
him against the contagion of the squire's vices. Sensual 
license and the bottle she dreaded, and depicted in their 
effects ruin and misery. Above all, she intreated him never 
to bring the Squire there, or to give occasion, if possible, for 
his coming. Jane had been to school for some time after 
he had come to the estate, but everyone now had noticed 
her beauty, and the anxious mother had not omitted to ob- 
serve the glances which the squire had of late more and 
more cast towards the pew where she sat with her friend 
and future sister-in-law, Betsy Corden. George treated 
her cautious as utterly needless. The squire, he said, knew 
very well that these girls were engaged to two of his best 
tenants, and was not such a fool as to entertain any dis- 
honourable designs towards them. 



THE HUTSTT. 449 

But it was not long before the Squire rode into the yard at 
the Beeves to inquire for George. Once having done that, 
seemed to give occasion to do it again. The ice was broken, 
and he was riding that way accidentally, or coming on some 
business to George, in a manner and frequency that had 
never occurred before. In these visits, however, old William 
Wagstaff, or Mrs. Wagstaff, were assiduous to go out to him 
if George were not about, and it was rarely that Jane was 
visible. Once, however, the Squire came riding upon a 
Saturday, when all were gone to market except Jane, and 
now she was compelled to speak to him. Nimbus did not 
conceal his pleasure at seeing her ; he sat on his horse at the 
door, and detained her there by many inquiries and some 
compliments. Jane, who knew his character, and most 
thoroughly despised it, made every possible attempt to with- 
draw into the house ; but he put fresh questions to her, and 
fear of offending the landlord overruled her. From this 
time the attentions of Nimbus were more undisguised. He 
would come riding up, fling the bridle on his horse's neck, 
and march into the house without any ceremony ; inquire, if 
she did not appear, and if he saw her would sit and talk for 
hours. These things did not fail to cause great uneasiness 
in the whole family. Jane Wagstaff was a young woman 
who was capable of creating a strong sentiment in the mind 
of any man, — pure in the pure, passionate in the licentious. 
She was a frank and fresh country beauty : somewhat tall, 
of a fine growth, a pure and healthy complexion, a free and 
buoyant carriage, and a face full at once of sense, intelli- 
gence, and the most kind-hearted beauty. You saw at a 
glance that no care had ever dimmed those large dark yet 
laughing eyes, or had shaded that roseate and deliciouf, 
cheek. She was like one of the summer mornings that 
broke over her native dwelling, — brilliant, dewy, fresh and 
fragrant as anything on earth could be. In her light and 
ardent spirit the most virtuous and high-toned sentiments 
prevailed, for she had sound sense, a fine nature, and had had 
an education above what many might consider necessary 
for her station. Such was not a woman likely to encourage 
the advances of a married libertine like Nimbus, but on the 
contrary to resent indignantly any approaches to such. She, 
therefore, kept as much as possible out of his way. 

q a 



450 THE HUNT. 

Her friend Betsy Corden was of a somewhat different 
temperament. She was timid, sensitive, and inclined to 
religious sentiment, that found much solace in poetry. She 
was as tall as Jane, but of a slenderer figure, and of a paler 
and thinner cast of features ; but there was an expression in 
her beautifully formed mouth, and in her clear blue eye, that 
was full of a fascinating beauty. The two damsels, who 
had grown up almost together from childhood, who had run 
as little girls across the neighbouring common to a day- 
school, and who had been at the same school at the county 
town, were more like sisters than friends. They were often 
together at each other's houses, and were continually passing 
to and fro together, or to see each other. The foot-path 
through Eaddig's Park was trod by them almost daily in 
fair weather, and they would often stroll along it, accom- 
panied by their brothers and lovers, listening to the music 
of the woodland birds, or seated by the Abbot's Well. 

It was at this well, one summer evening, as they had 
loitered there alone till it was growing dark, that they were 
suddenly startled by the presence of the Squire. They rose 
hastily, returned his "Good evening!" and were hurrying 
away. But Nimbus seized them familiarly by an arm each, 
and declared that he was not going to part with them in 
that manner. He endeavoured to persuade them to sit down 
again, and enter into conversation, asking them what they 
were afraid of; but they firmly and respectfully excused them- 
selves on account of the lateness of the evening, and with a 
significant look at each other resolved not to separate, but 
to go on together to the Abbey Mill, which was near at 
hand. Nimbus accompanied them, making himself as 
agreeable as possible, and asking whether he could not see 
Mis« "Wagstaff home ; but Jane replied " that she was going 
to stay all night at the mill." The Squire on this took his 
leave with a familiar " Good night !" 



CHAPTER II. 

OF NIMBUS AND HIS GEEAT HUNTINGS. 

Fbom this day the young friends never ventured alone 
across Eaddig's Park, nor even together in the evening; 
but in the day-time they found themselves more than 
once accosted suddenly by the Squire, who seemed to spring 
out of the ground, and was not got rid of without much 
difficulty. On' one occasion, the two girls had reached 
the Abbot's Well, and had sat down there to talk over 
something of particular interest to them. It was on an 
autumn afternoon. As they parted, Betsy Corden had 
scarcely disappeared in the footpath, descending towards 
the mill, when Jane ascended up the little dell towards the 
higher and open ground, when she was startled by a rust- 
ling in the hazel bushes, and out stepped Nimbus, gun in 
hand. At sight of him, Jane replied hastily to his " How 
do you do ?" and was passing briskly on, when he seized 
her by the arm, and endeavoured to detain her. Freeing 
herself from his grasp, by a sudden start, she took to her 
heels, and ran. She was as fleet of foot as strong of frame, 
and fear gave wings to her speed. But Nimbus sprang as 
fleetly after her, and to her horror she saw Black Beardall, 
the most ill-lookirjg and ill-favoured of the Squire's keepers, 
step from beneath a tree, cross her path, and clasping her 
in his arms, exclaim, " Not so fast, my pretty bird. The 
squire is a sure hand at all kinds of game !" Jane gave a 
shriek of horror ; but in the next instant she found herself 
in the arms of Nimbus, and the keeper, with a devilish leer, 
turned on his heel, and retired to a distance on his home- 
ward path. The spirit of Jane Wagstaff, spite of her situa- 
tion, rose proudly within her, and turning towards Nimbus, 
she said, boldly, " Sir, what is the meaning of this ? Per- 
mit me to pass on." 

" Anon," said Nimbus, endeavouring to imprint a kiss on 
her lips, which, however, she repelled in a very unccremo- 



452 THE HTTNT. 

nious slap hi the face, and an indignant, " No, sir !" Once 
more she endeavoured to rush past him down the valley ; 
but with a loud laugh, Nimbus caught her round the waist ; 
and pointed down the path, where also stood another keeper, 
beneath the boughs of.the wood. Alarm, of the most 
dreadful kind, now seized the unhappy girl. She assumed 
a stern and dignified air and tone, and insisted upon being 
allowed to pass on. But the only answer on the part of 
Nimbus was to seize her more firmly. A desperate strug- 
gle ensued. Shriek after shriek, the terrified, yet self-pos- 
sessed maiden sent forth, that it might reach some woodman, 
or some passer on the footpath. She defended herself with 
a vigour that evidently amazed her betrayer : and in a for- 
tunate moment, espying a dog-whip in an outet pocket of 
his shooting jacket, she plucked it forth, and his hat having 
fallen off in the struggle, she dealt him a blow with the 
heavy end on his temples, which made him relax his grasp, 
and reel backwards. In an instant she darted amongst the 
bushes, and plunged forward with a frantic fury. She 
heard the keepers call to each other, and knew that they 
would give chace. But she knew, too, that she was not so 
far from the lower road and the Abbey Mill, and that she 
might hope to reach one first, and then pretty certainly the 
other, before these fellows should have given the necessary 
assistance to their fallen master. On she went ; but soon 
found that one, at least, of the base keepers was in pursuit 
of her. She heard his rapid crash through the underwood ; 
she heard his panting respiration as he ran, and conceiving 
that the noise of the parting boughs directed him in his 
chase of her, she took such a course as presented a clear 
opening, stooping and diving, as it were, beneath the thick 
branches, and beneath the dense hazels ; but, spite of her 
care, the rapid steps and hard breathing of her pursuer 
came ever nearer. She stood to consider what she should 
do ; and instinctively screening herself from view in the 
dense and soft verdure of a mass of willows, she saw Black 
Beardall rush past. It was evident that he was hurrying 
to intercept her escape to the mill. Quick as thought, 
therefore, she took a direction towards the footpath, reached 
it, dashed across it, and got into the underwood bn the 
other side. Here, feeling that no pursuit would be dreamt 



THE HTTtfT. 453 

of, site more leisurely threaded her way, making a circuit, 
so as to reach the ruins of the Abbey below the mill. Once 
in sight of these hoary walls, she felt herself comparatively 
safe, for within them lived the head labourer of the farm ; 
and springing over the low part of the wall from the wood, 
she rushed into the cottage, and closed the door behind her, 
locking and bolting it in the same instant, to the no little 
astonishment and terror of the labourer's wife. The good 
woman, if astonished at this sudden apparition and frantic 
action, was still more so when she contemplated more 
closely Jane WagstafTs appearance. Her clothes torn to 
rags ; her face flushed and bleeding, from the lashing and 
scratching of the branches and briars of the wood, she sunk 
into a chair, and exclaiming, " Oh, my Grod !" fainted away. 
The poor woman, in the utmost terror, endeavoured to re- 
call her to some consciousness, and was not long in suc- 
ceeding. Jane bade her not to be terrified, but to keep the 
door fast, until they ascertained that the way was clear to 
the mill. This once certain, she bade the dame accompany 
her, and with a hurried flight she gained the miller's door, 
and darting into the house, created as much astonishment 
there as she had done in the labourer's cottage. 

It may be imagined what consternation and what indig- 
nation this adventure occasioned, at both the mill and 
Eeeves' farm. The parents, the brother, the lover, all 
equally felt the burning sense of the wrong inflicted ; but 
they felt, too, in what position they were placed with their 
landlord. Neither of the farmers was secure ; the mill 
was held on lease. The love of absolute power had made it 
a fixed rule with Nimbus not to grant any leases. These 
had fallen out ; and both Corden and "Wagstaff were now 
merely yearly tenants. To resent such an outrage as it 
ought to be resented, would secure an instant notice to quit 
their holdings. They were attached by the residence of 
generations to the spots. All their recollections and asso- 
ciations were bound up with them. To murmur, even, was 
to ensure dismissal, and much persecution besides. What 
means of ruin and vengeance do the rich not possess ! 

And yet to be utterly silent on such an occasion was 
more than human nature could bear. The wronged spirit 
would rebel : the wounded honour would swell the tortured 



454l THE HUNT. 

bosom. There was an unusual silence around tlie Abbey 
mill and Reeves' farm. The Squire was seen nowhere for 
weeks abroad. There was a report of serious illness ; and 
then that he had left for London till spring. 

It was not till the following June that Nimbus came fco the 
hall. By that time it might be supposed that the passion of 
injury had subsided, and that prudence might dictate to the in- 
jured to be silent, though not quite satisfied. But in the 
interim neither the Wagstaffs nor the Cordens had restrained 
the expression of their feeling towards the guilty keepers ; 
and these had carefully forwarded exaggerated and envenomed 
statements regarding these matters, and others connected 
with the Wagstaffs and the Cordens, to their master in town. 
Rumours, moreover, had got abroad of the transaction in 
Raddig's Park; it had assumed many and most distorted 
shapes, and the keepers had taken care to give to them such 
as were injurious to the reputation, not only of Jane Wag- 
staff, but of her friend Betsy Corden. It was said that both 
these young damsels had been accustomed to meet the 
Squire clandestinely in the wood, and that a discovery of 
these assignations had led to an encounter between the 
Squire and the young men, their lovers and brothers. All 
this tended to irritate and wound deeply every member of 
both families. The old people grieved, but counselled for 
prudence sake to take no notice. They were reluctant to 
be torn, at their time of life, out of their beloved habitations, 
and to see their children disinherited of all that the labours 
of their ancestors had made valuable and pleasant. But 
Jane Wagstaff resented deeply the unjust aspersions cast 
upon her by those who envied her beauty, or had been re- 
jected by her ; while Betsy Corden, with her less energetic 
and more sensitive nature, suffered manifestly in her health. 
The two young men, on their parts, had lost much of their 
former gaiety, were much together, but far less in the 
society of their neighbours ; they rode together to market, 
and returned together early ; there was a spirit about them 
which, though it did not express itself in words, was felt, 
and it was one of brooding uneasiness. 

Such was the state of things when George Wagstaff, rid- 
ing in the deepest part of the deep, narrow lane, between 
the Abbey-mill and Reeves, met the Souire ; Greorge, at sight 



THE HTJNT. 455 

of him, gave a spur to his horse, and, riding up pretty briskly, 
touched his hat, and was going on, Nimbus, however, drew 
up, and hallooed out to George, " Hillo ! Wagstaff ; how 
now ?" George stopped, and turned round his horse. 

" "What the d — 1, man, is the meaning of this ?" said the 
Squire, half offended and half gaily. 
" Of what, sir ?" asked George. 

" Of what, sir! — why, sir, of' riding past me, like a plaguy 
black thunderbolt ; don't you know me, eh ?" 

" Yes, sir ; I know you very well," added George. 
a Come, no nonsense, "Wagstaff ; I am no stranger to wha 
has been going on here down in the country, while I have 
been in town. You and others have been making very free 
with my name, and I just want to tell you at once, I'm not 
the man to put up with it. Let what's past be forgot ; 
mind, I'm quite willing to that ; come again to the hall, you 
and I should be friends for mutual interest, or, if not friends 
— take notice, then, — d — me you will have an infernal enemy 
in me, I can tell you. Verbum sap, "Wagstaff; you know the 
proverb, — you have been to school." 

" Sir," said George, assuming as cool and respectful a 
tone and manner as possible, " You know I was always glad 
to serve you in any way I could ; bufc there are things that 
no honest man can bear ; and my sister's reputation is of 
more consequence than any interest of mine." 

" Pooh ! — the d — 1 ! what ails your sister ? I tried to get 
a kiss from her, — is that such a sin ? She should not be so 
devilish handsome — that was all. And, by the by, she paid 
me off for it; she nearly did for me, I can tell you. "Well, 
there need be no more of that ; your sister is safe enough 
for me, I am not at all inclined to fight the Amazons. Be 
wise, George, and look like yourself, and not like a regular 

bully. On Monday the troops assemble at M ." 

"I shall be there," said George; "but allow me, sir, to 
say, that my sister's reputation has been made very free 
with all round the country, and it is not in human nature 
to sit easy under it." 

" Then sit uneasy, and a murrain on you ! Get your 
sister married ; that cures all bruises." 

George Wagstaff felt his blood mount and boil in his 



456 THE HUNT. 

veins ; he did not venture to reply, but touched his hat, and 
turning his horse, rode off. 

On Sunday, the Wagstaffs and Cordens were at church ; 
but without the daughters. Nimbus cast looks of no friendly 
sort towards their pews. It was soon known to him that 
on his return to the country, these young ladies had left 
their respective homes — gone, it was said, to relations a long 
way off. 

The next day, G-eorge Wagstaff and Michael Corden were 

riding towards M , to join the yeomanry troop, in full 

regimentals, when Nimbus and some of the officers, his 
friends, overtook them. Nimbus gave them a scowl of no 
favourable augury, and his party galloped on. It was soon 

seen when they reached the parade-ground at M , that 

Nimbus meant to make it a bitter drilling to the two young 
men. The very first time that he rode along the ranks he 
stopped and scrutinized their accoutrements minutely, and 
found fault with the state in which everything was. Their 
clothes had been badly kept, their carbines were rusty, their 
belts and the rest were slovenly. This was continued from 
day to day : no two men in the troop were finer or more 
adroit soldiers, rode better horses, or had their arms and 
accoutrements m nicer order ; but Nimbus was resolved to 
find fault, and to mortify them. Their horses were, according 
to him, as rough as bears ; could never be half curried and 
cleaned, — they were too fine gentlemen to clean their horses, 
and should have brought servants with them. As he rode 
along the line, he cried, " Back, Wagstaff! keep in order !" 
and gave George a slap with the flat side of his sword on 
his chest, to make him draw back into true line, when he 
was already there. The two young men saw that they were 
marked out for persecution, and it was not long in reaching 
its height. One day, G-eorge Wagstaff was called out of the 
ranks by Major Nimbus, and reprimanded, before the whole 
troop, for negligence in his dress and duties ; he underwent 
the most malicious and insulting criticism, and took his place 
again in the ranks with a heart bursting with rage. 

That very evening the two friends sent in their uniforms 
and accoutrements, and rode off home, having sent off during 
the day for their ordinary suits. 



THE HUJfT. 457 

It was a fatal step ; but it was, perhaps, what the impla- 
cable Nimbus would have compelled, them sooner or later. 
Their parents were struck with consternation when they 
saw them arrive, and heard what they had done. 

" God help us !" they exclaimed ; "it's all over with us. 
The Squire will be like a raging fury. He'll ruin us ; and 
we must turn out from the old places where our families 
have lived so many generations. Alack ! alack !" 

"Let us turn out, then," said the young man. "The 
world is wide enough. Who would live to be a slave to a 
fellow like Nimbus ? Is he to insult our sisters, and to 
trample on us because we won't endure it ? No ! England 
is not so narrow yet." 

Thus the young men spoke ; but their minds were dread- 
fully distressed, and the old people seemed struck dumb with 
grief. And swiftly came the evil. It came in the shape of 
letters from Nimbus, ordering the young men to quit his 
estate at once, or threatening to turn out the old people. 
It was a command, in fact, for the old people to turn their 
children out of their homes. 

"Nay," they said, " that we never will. Let us go alto- 
gether." 

But the young men said, " No ; we are young and able : 
we are not without means ; we will go and farm for our- 
selves." 

That very day they rode off the ground at Beeves and 
the Abbey-mill farms, and took up their quarters in a distant 
village. The quietness with which all this was done seemed 
to enrage rather than to pacify Nimbus. It was as if what 
he meant for a severe punishment was treated with con- 
tempt. He heard, too, whispers in the country regarding it. 
He had terrified, it was said, the young women away by his 
licentiousness, and had now driven away the props and 
stays of the old people in their sons. He had heard, too, 
that these sons were about to establish themselves at spring 
in farms of their own. In the good war times, as they 
are called, the Cordens and "Wagstaffs had saved money and 
bought land. On this they meant to live and to marry. 
But there was a weak spot in their plans, and their inde- 
fatigable enemy found it out. To complete the purchase 



458 THE HUNT. 

they had borrowed a certain portion of the money, and the 
fall of prices since the war had reduced the value of the 
land purchased to little more than the value of the borrowed 
capital. Still they hoped to be able to live upon it at no 
great charge ; but Nimbus knew their mortgagees, and 
prevailed on them to call in the money, offering to take it 
at a higher interest, or purchase the lands if they came to 
the hammer. 

This was a dreadful and unexpected blow. The young 
men saw nothing but ruin before them. Autumn went on. 
Their parents, deprived of their active aid and counsel, 
gathered in their harvest with heavy hearts. Their chil- 
dren were banished from their presence, and the places of 
refuge, which they had imagined they had secured for them, 
were about to be wrested from them. The poor old people 
went on their way in sorrow which rapidly bowed them 
down. 

It was during this melancholy time that their children 
could no longer refrain from coming to see, and to comfort 
them. Their sons after night -fall would ride over, and 
spend the evening till a late hour, keeping close within the 
closed shutters, and riding off as softly as possible near 
midnight. But this did not long escape Nimbus. His 
keepers observed these visits, and reported them ; and the 
old people had notice at Michaelmas to quit their holdings. 

This final stroke broke down entirely the fortitude of 
the poor people. The old miller and the old farmer went 
together to implore that they might remain. If there had 
been a grain of real human flesh in the heart of Nimbus, it 
must have grieved with remorse at the sight of these two 
meek and respectable old men. They and their fathers had 
been the tenants of his and his wife's fathers for generations. 
They had been all their lives peaceful, industrious, and 
virtuous. They were as much portions of the estate as the 
house in which he lived, or the noble trees which embel- 
lished his park. Their pale and attenuated faces, their 
frames enfeebled by unwonted trouble, their white thin 
hair, would have pleaded in the bosom of Nero ; but they 
produced no pang in that of Nimbus. 

" No ! those upstart young scoundrels should never tread 



THE HUNT. 459 

his acres, and therefore they had better all pack off to- 
gether." 

Brutal wretch ! As he saw the two venerable men pro- 
ceed with unsteady steps along the grand avenue leading 
from his house, he only looked after them with a base 
triumph in his power of hunting them, and said, — 

" A pretty kettle of fish they have made of it with their 
conceited sons, and their fine boarding-school daughters. 
We must teach them what comes of it." 

This act raised the passions of the sons to a terrible 
degree. They vowed veugeance on the oppressor. They 
returned at once to their homes to assist and defend their 
parents. Their daughters also came back for the same pur- 
pose ; but they never crossed the park on any occasion, and 
were never seen abroad, except with their brothers. They 
came duly to church, where, however, scarcely any old 
neighbours dare speak to them, and the rest of their time 
they were busy at home, making preparations by clearance 
of corn and domestic stores for the removal at spring. 
Never, however, was such a winter passed. They were 
involved in litigation in defence of their mortgaged purchases. 
They saw, as it were, the very ground sliding away from 
beneath their feet, and no home presenting itself where they 
could receive the grief- stricken old people. They saw their 
powerful foe preparing still to humble and to trample upon 
them. As the hunting season advanced, they found, at first 
to their surprise, but soon to their horror, that the course 
of the hunt was directed, by a malignant dexterity, across 
their farms. Black Beardall seemed to possess the art of 
unkenneling the fox in such places that he should take his 
course over the land of the Wagstaffs or the Cordens. In 
frosty mornings, after wet, half a hundred horsemen would 
come crashing over the hedges, and dashing along the 
springing wheat, tearing up the hope of the coming sum- 
mer, and of that which should be valued to them on going 
out. Time after time this took place. Nimbus, like another 
Wild Huntsman, galloping with headlong speed, came on, 
shouting — " Yohicks ! yohicks ! Forwards ! forwards !" The 
fury with which he ramped along, with all his horde of 
mounted savages clattering after him, making the earth and 
the young corn fly in all directions, and the yelling of the 



460 THE HUNT, 

hounds, presented a scene enough to make the outraged 
sufferers rush forth in frantic agony, to curse the whole 
demon route. 

On more than one occasion the young men had rushed 
out, and cried shame on the reckless hunters ; but it was 
like howling to the winds themselves. On went the ruth- 
less rabble of destructionists, and the " Yohicks, yohicks !" 
was heard going on and on, like the voice of an exulting 
and indomitable fiend. 

The whole scene would have reminded a German reader 
of Burger's description in the " Wild Huntsman ;" and a 
wilder or more devil-inspired hunter than Mmbus never 
existed. 



And hurry, hurry ! on they went, 

Through woods, o'er hills, down valleys low. 

And wilder blasts the grim Earl blew, 

And onward raged both foot and horse ; 
Now here, now there, see ! riders flew, 
Flung from their seats with fatal force. 
Plunge ! let them plunge to death and hell ! 
A prince's sport that sweetens well. 

The countryman, as that mad troop came like a hurricane 
over his fields, might well again have addressed their leader 
in the indignant words of another of Burger's lyrics : — 

THE PEASANT. 

Who art thou, Prince, that without ruth 
Crushest me with thy chariot wheels, 
Tramplest me with thy horse ? 

Who art thou, Prince, that in my flesh, 
Thy friend, the bloodhound, unchastised, 
May set his teeth and claws ? 

Who art thou, that through corn and holt 
Drivest me with thy hurrying chase, 
Panting as the wild game ? 

The corn thy followers trample down, 
Which horse and hound and thou destroy- 
That corn, thou Prince, is mine ! 



THE HTJ]S T T. 461 

Thou dragg'st no harrow, guid'st no plough, 
I>"or swelterest through the harvest day. — 
Mine, mine's the toil and bread ! 

Ha ! thou a magistrate from God ? 
God scatters blessings wide — thou robb'st : 
Tyrant, thou'rt not from God ! 

But in this case there was to be a still closer resemblance 
to the scenes which E iirger, the Burns of Germany, has 
written with a fire-brand. 

The game cowered in the young corn green, 

And hoped in safety there to hide : 
And, lo ! a countryman was seen, 
"Who to the Earl in anguish cried, 
" Mercy ! noble Sir ; oh spare 
The poor man's labour, sweat, and care !" 

"Away, thou dog !" with curse and frown, 

The Earl did to the ploughman say ; 
" Or quick my hounds shall tear thee down. 
On, comrades, all ! — away ! away ! 
And prove I wake no idle fears, 
Crack all your whips about his ears !" 

'Twas said ! 'twas done ! the wild Earl flew 
O'er hedge, o'er ditch — from rear to van ! 
'Twas crash and clang ; whips cracked, horns blew, 
And forward dashed horse, hound, and man; — 
And horse, and hound, and man did tread 
To steaming mire, the people's bread ! 

Poor old Wagstaff, as he saw a similar rabble carrying 
similar destruction across his crops, could no longer re- 
strain himself: he rushed out bare-headed; and, as the 
hunters were about to leap into the home-field that showed 
a noble expanse of springing wheat, he stood, and begged in 
G-od's name that they would spare that. It would have 
made almost any human being pause to see such an appari- 
tion : a tall, thin old man, pale as a ghost, his large grey 
eyes wildly gleaming from among the thickly cross-hatched 
wrinkles of his thin and withered face, and* his long white 
hair flowing in the wind. To see him stand with uplifted 
hands, imploring them to turn aside to the next field, and 



462 



THE HTTFT. 



not ruin him out and out. " As God is in heaven !" ex- 
claimed the poor old man : " As ye hope to be saved, gentle- 
men, spare me this once ; ride where you will over the grass 
lands, but — " 

" Tohicks ! Yo-ha-hoicks !" sung out the implacable Nim- 
bus, pushing his horse over the fence at once ; and as poor 
old "Wagstaff stood and wrung hi3 hands, and continued to 
exclaim, " Oh God ! Oh God ! there is no pity, no feeling," 
he rode up to him in a livid fury, and, shaking his whip over 
his head, exclaimed, " Villain ! if I were not a magistrate I 
would flog you to death !" 

The scene was so outrageous to every feeling of humanity, 
that the very hunters paused ; there was a moment's halt — 
a silence, in which the old man, looking upon his landlord 
with a calm look, though every limb trembled as with ague, 
said gently, "May the Lord forgive you!" and turned 
away. 



CHAPTEE III. 

HOW THE GAME WHICH NIMBUS HUNTED ELED, AND PEOSPEBED 
EXCEEDINGLY. 

Our went the hunt, and poor old Wagstaff reached his house 
and gave himself up to despair. Fathers and sons, wives 
and daughters, of the two devoted families, were sure that 
they had nothing to expect but what the fellest hate could 
dictate. "Winter was here ; spring was coming, in which 
they must quit ; and they had to arrange with this fury of a 
landlord for improvements done, and the value of crops on 
the ground. How ? 

They were soon informed by the steward that no allow- 
ance would be made for improvements ; their holding was of 
ancient date, and there were no stipulations on this head. 
All that they had done they had done voluntarily, and they 
must lose the cost of it. But the crops ? 

They must be valued. Tes. The steward would do that. 
They refused so flagrant a proposition, and claimed to ap- 
point their man too, and he' with the steward to decide on 
an umpire. No ; it was refused, and there remained but a 
lawsuit to settle it. Poor people ! a lawsuit with a wealthy 
landlord, and they themselves already ruined. But glaring 
and revolting as this fact was, the Squire did not trust his 
purse alone against a British jury. When there are wanted 
causes of prejudice, they are found. Towards spring, a fox- 
cover of high old gorse took fire near the Wagstaffs. It 
was one which the Squire was known to hold in the highest 
estimation. It burnt with fury, and carried its flames to a 
larch plantation, and consumed some acres of fine thriving 
young timber. It was immediately spread abroad that this 
was the work of the disaffected families. They were known 
to be in a state of the bitterest hostility with the Squire ; 
they were in hot dispute and deepest discontent regarding 
the valuation of the crops and the pending suit. There were 



464 THE HUNT. 

not wanting fellows — there are plenty on such occasions, 
and Black Beardall was very ready on this — to say that they 
had heard the Wagstaffs and Cordens vow vengeance on the 
Squire. 

" The greatest of all scandal," says Leigh Hunt, "is that 
the world is ready to believe scandal." This charge, made 
without the slightest foundation, as it came to be well 
known, for the purpose of creating a serious prejudice 
against those doomed families, was accepted by the public 
with an avidity that was astonishing. Every one exclaimed, 
" Oh, dreadful ! oh, the revengeful wretches ! oh, poor Mr. 
Nimbus !" All the crimes and tyrannies of Nimbus were 
overlooked ; nay, they seemed to be hugged and caressed as 
virtues, and the full vial of indignation of the virtuous public 
was poured on the victims of the most diabolical oppression. 
A short time showed that the burning of the fox-cover and 
plantation enabled Nimbus to carry out some changes that 
he contemplated in his park ; but this told nothing in favour 
of the "Wagstaffs ; they had done it, and the Squire made 
the best of it. 

Imagine the situation of the families. The time drew on 
for quitting their farms. Every one looked on them with 
real or affected aversion ; they ceased to go to church, for 
no one would speak to them ; they were then declared to be 
godless and infidels. The health of Mrs. Wagstaff gave way 
under all this hatred and calamity. The day came when the 
sale must take place. Earmers and country people flocked 
from near and far to examine and purchase ; and in the 
midst of all this most comfortless confusion poor Mrs. Wag- 
staff was obliged to keep her bed, and the furniture of her 
room was to be excepted. 

The house and farm were stripped, except of a few neces- 
saries that they reserved for their accommodation in some 
other dwelling ; and in this melancholy situation, and with 
the more melancholy prospect of losing Mrs. "Wagstaff, they 
awaited the day of final removal. 

Perhaps no days of a more gloomy and depressing nature 
ever passed over human beings than those. On the spot where 
they had grown up and enjoyed all the brightest seasons 
and associations of life, they were about to become aliens. 
They must depart to a day, or they would be intruders. 



THE HTTNT. 465 

Both farms had been taken long ago. There had been a 
perfect scramble for them. JSTo one seemed to trouble him- 
self about the character of or the tyranny of the landlord ; 
but, on the contrary, far higher rents were offered for them, 
and were given. 

These facts made both the Wagstaffs and the Cordens 
seem to see what desirable places they had sacrificed through 
their opposition to Nimbus, and tofeelmore sensibly the blame 
of the country people. Amongst the young people, however, 
there was but one opinion — that they had done right, and that 
it was impossible to have lived under Nimbus with honour ; 
that it was better to make great sacrifices than to remain 
near him. But old Wagstaff, though he acknowledged that 
the Squire was a dreadful and wilful man, shook his head at 
the condition to which they were reduced; and the old 
miller Corden was querulous and irritable about it. It was 
all the consequences of boarding-school education — it was 
being " too speritty." Their forefathers had managed to live 
well enough there ; — but he did not reflect that their ances- 
tors never had such a landlord to deal with. The ancestors 
of Mmbus's wife, who had been the proprietors, had always 
been noble and generous men. 

These things deeply pained the young people, and lay 
with heavy weight upon the dying Mrs. Wagstaffs mind. 
Jane and George tended her with the utmost affection : it 
was all they had now to do ; and she would often gaze on 
them with tears, and wonder what would become of them 
when she was gone. 

The great embarrassment now was, how in her reduced 
state they were to take her away. The doctor declared that 
to remove her would be her death, but to ask the incoming 
tenant, who was eager to take possession with a large 
family, for time, was useless ; it would have been a mortal 
offence to Mmbus. The day of quitting hurried on, and 
Mrs. "Wagstaff lingered between life and death. There 
wanted now but two days, and go they must, if she died on 
the road. The son and daughter were in agonies, but 
Providence removed their perplexity ; that night, two days 
before Lady-day, Mrs. Wagstaff expired. 

All now was hurry. The coffin arrived on the afternoon of 

HH 



466 THE HUNT. 

the next day, the day when the funeral must take place, 
for they must be off the premises before twelve o'clock on 
Lady-day itself. Wretched indeed was the funeral. A 
woman was gone who had lived respected and deserving 
respect by the neighbours, but no neighbours came to testify 
that respect by their presence. The terror of the lord of 
the soil kept all away. The procession set out ; — it con- 
sisted only of the dejected widower, the deceased's son and 
daughter, and Michael and Betsy Corden. It was' a day 
calculated to add yet deeper sadness to their hearts. In- 
stead of a fine, dry, March day, there was a chilly dreary 
sleet abroad, and the shades of a dreary evening were falling 
as they reached the church-yard, where they had to wait for 
some time the arrival of the clergyman, who was dining at 
the hall in the immediate vicinity of which the church 
stood. The sexton unlocked the gate to let in the pro- 
cession ; but no group of villagers collected according to 
wont to witness the solemn scene. There were poor in that 
village who had many and many a time received food and rai- 
ment at the Reeves, and comforting words from the deceased 
as well as from the living successors ; but the ban was on 
these families, and though these poor might send up a prayer 
in the secret of their cottages, they dared not to appear 
here. There were only some boys, who, in the dusk of this 
cold damp evening, thrust their hands into their pockets, 
and seemed rather waiting to warm themselves by helping 
to fill in the grave than for anything else. At length the 
rector came and hastily despatched the ceremony : beckoning 
to George, when he approached to pay the fees, to give 
them to the clerk, and departing without a word to old 
neighbours, at whose table he had been many a time right 
jovial, he took a short cut to the hall again, by slipping over 
the wall and dropping into the adjoining shrubbery. 

The mourners, with hearts out of which all feelings of 
human comfort and love of life were thoroughly crushed, 
wounded in their self-respect, feeling themselves hated and 
despised — abandoned by all the world, and torn up root and 
branch from every spot and thing that their whole existence 
had taught them to cherish, — withdrew in silence, and the 
sexton closed and locked the gate behind them without one 
final word of farewell. 



THE HUNT. 467 

That night the respective families made haste, loaded 
their few goods, and departed before daylight, leaving a 
farm-servant to give up the keys to the incomer. Not a 
soul came to take leave of them ; and they departed from 
the place of their families' long settlement without one 
token of kindness. Such is the power of the petty rural 
tyrant over the fortunes, the fears, and even the virtues of 
the people. Yet let not human nature be too severely judged : 
on the neighbouring heath, where no prying eye could 
well lurk, for all was opeu, bleak, and dark, as the two carts 
which carried the goods of the late tenants of .Reeves farm 
and of the Abbey mill went slowly on their way, fol- 
lowed by their owners in a covered tax-cart, a voice ac- 
costed them, and the vehicles made a halt : several dark 
figures advanced to that containing the fugitives. 
were old neighbours, who dared not show what they felt near 
home, and who might encounter ruin if their present inter- 
view were known. 

It was a melancholy pleasure to the persecuted group to 
receive at the last moment this evidence that all had not 
abandoned or entirely misjudged them. There were tears, 
prayers, and familiar shakes of the hand in abundance, and 
the friendly neighbours disappeared in the darkness, and 
the travellers again went on their way 

What became of the Cordens and the "Wagstaffs it a 
long before any one knew. In the autumn of that year, 
those riots which attended the rejection of the Reform Bill 
by the Lords took place, in which, at Eristol and Notting- 
ham, such extensive burnings were perpetrated. At the 
latter place, the mob which destroyed the castle, and at- 
tempted, and in part effected, other outrages, was so well 
organised, that they were supposed to be under the guidance 
of superior minds. They manifested, as such mobs do, a 
desire to execute justice, where they thought it had been 
neglected by the proper authorities, and vengeance, where 
the offenders against humanity had escaped punishment 
through their wealth or position. The Duke of Newcastle had 
incurred their resentment by the profligacy of his political 
doctrine of " doing what he liked with his own ;" but it was 
also said that he had shamefully broken faith with a lady, a 



468 THE HUNT. 

ten-ant of the castle, who in consequence had quitted it, 
and as it lay thus empty, the mob decreed its fall. 

Never was there a more magnificent bonfire. The crowd, 
led on by evidently able leaders, advanced to the work of 
destruction in admirable order. Having forced their way 
in at the gates, and broken in the doors of the castle, they 
proceeded to tear down the cedar wainscotting, and piled 
it in heaps in each room. They then set fire to it, and 
rending down the ancient tapestry, they wrapped it round 
them as robes, and thus danced around their fires. Over 
the whole town the great building soon cast the splendour 
of its flames and the odour of the burning cedar, and amid 
the darkness of night, and the incessant fall of drenching 
rain, that stupendous blaze arose, and flickered in the thick 
vapoury sky, and inDumerable sparks rising like a gigantic 
fiery tree, rose over the blazing fabric, that aloft on its rock 
displayed its catastrophe to the whole country round for 
scores of miles. 

But still as the whole huge pile appeared one brilliant 
mass of flame, thousands of spectators saw, as it were, dark 
figures still dancing around intense fires. Some declared 
that they were only curling waving columns of smoke ; 
others protested that they were exulting fiends ; but they 
were men and women, intoxicated with the excitement of 
the scene, who continued to dance till there was no longer 
any retreat by the staircase, and effecting their escape only 
by issuing from the windows, and descending by the inden- 
tures of the quoinstones. "We speak from facts, derived 
from the confessions of the parties themselves. 

There was a magistrate in that neighbourhood, who 
was said to have committed a capital crime some time 
before. It was said that the weight of his purse had pur- 
chased his exemption from the punishment decreed by the 
laws ; although it was said that at the very next assizes 
three poor men were hanged for the commission of a 
crime of the very same kind. The mob vowed to execute 
the law upon this rich man, who had escaped by his riches. 
They vowed also to march into his distant neighbourhood, 
and punish Nimbus for the tyrannies which we/ have here re- 
corded. There were heard voices in the throng which 
urged these measures, and urged them eloquently. 



THE HUNT. 469 

There were seen two young men, of tall figures and com- 
manding features, but stamped with an indelible and as it 
were a mortal melancholy, who marshalled the mob, and 
directed its movements ; leading them on their march from 
one point of attack to another, by the charm of simulta- 
neous singing. Who were they ? It was said that num- 
bers recognized them ; and that they were no other than 
Greorge AVagstaff and Michael Corden ! It was believed 
that, resolved to take a signal vengeance on Nimbus for 
their cruel ruin, they had lain concealed to every one, 
watching for any opportunity, than which no greater could 
offer than this : that their object was first to gratify the 
mob, in their now more immediate objects of vengeance, 
and then to lead them to the estate of this tyrant. It was 
said, that for this purpose they addressed the assembled 
tens of thousands in the forest by night, and there worked 
them into such a pitch of fury by the recital of their suffer- 
ings, that they desired to be led away at once to the de- 
truction of Nimbus Hall. But that night the castle was 
doomed to fall; and the sensation which this occasioned 
called forth the next day the slumbering powers of both 
town and country. The mob fled before the military, and 
Nimbus escaped his doom. 

Had no real intelligence of the further fortunes of the 
Wagstaffs and the Cordens reached their native neighbour- 
hood, this belief would have become a fixed faith. We can 
well believe, that in the breasts of these two young men 
many a bitter thought brooded and rankled against their 
oppressor. It was not to be supposed that they could have 
been so insulted, so injured, so torn up from every place 
and thing, and person that they held dear, so covered with 
calumny and ruin, without ideas of vengeance kindling in 
their excited brains, and sentiments of hatred to this tyrant 
swelling their indignant breasts. But over all these it will 
be seen that they triumphed ; and though, when Curly 
Hearson and his fellows were hanged at Nottingham, as 
ringleaders of the rioters, it was said greater and abler ones 
had escaped, we can satisfactorily show that they were not 
these young men. 

When the two fugitive families were crossing the heath, 
on the night of their departure, they were directing their 



470 the hunt. 

course to the neighbourhood of a great iron-foundry, in 
which the Wagstaffs had a relative as the chief clerk. This 
worthy man, the nephew of old Mrs. Wagstaff, and the 
cousin, therefore, of George and Jane, had sympathised un- 
flinchingly with them in all their troubles, and had offered 
them a cottage which he had lately purchased, as a tempo- 
rary abode, till they finally settled themselves. Hither they 
were bound ; but after their friends had parted with them 
on the heath, they fell into conversation on their future 
prospects, and George suddenly proposing to leave all their 
troubles and the lawsuits — out of which they would proba- 
bly gain nothing but farther loss, wrong, and aspersion — 
and go to America, the project was universally assented to, 
as if the same views had already been occupying each indi- 
vidual mind. They therefore stayed only a day with their 
relative ; for a ship being on the point of sailing from 
Liverpool to New York, they hastened thither, leaving their 
relative to dispose of their few articles of furniture at his 
convenience. 

This worthy man had it, therefore, in his power to state 
that it was impossible for George Wagstaff and Michael 
Corden to have been at Nottingham at the time of the riots, 
having proof that they embarked for America within a week 
of their quitting their farms, and having maintained a cor- 
respondence with them ever since, by which their whole his- 
tory was familiar to him. Enough of this history may be 
known from a letter which, ten years after their emigration, 
George "Wagstaff wrote to this cousin ; for in this letter the 
writer seemed led by the completion of a term of ten years 
to take a view of the past. With this letter our narrative 
will conclude : — 

" Corden's Mills, Wagstaff Township, 
" Banks of the Wabash, Indiana, 
"October, 1842." 
" Dear John, — Betsy and I have been talking over, with 
the children about us, the wonderful changes of the last ten 
years. Yes ; ten years ! They are gone, and luckily we 
are here, — free, wealthy, happy, and I hope useful and thank- 
ful. But, feeling all this, and the gratitude of it, we could 
not help thinking a deal about you, and your truth and 
constant loving-kindness ; and Betsy said, ' Do, George, write 



THE HUNT. 471 

to John, and tell him what we feel." So here I am, writing ; 
and again I say, what a wonderful change in ten years ! 

" When I look out on the scene that lies before my win- 
dow, and see this beautiful valley, with the beautiful river 
running along it, the sloping uplands backed by the distant 
hills, and all the signs of a busy and happy population, in 
good houses, mills, and rich cultivation, and reflect that we 
have here two thousand acres of our own, meadows, pasture, 
arable, and woodland, how can I help looking backward with 
wonder at the time when we were driven as it were with 
ignominy from the land of our birth ! Everything seemed 
to conspire to drive us out of it. We can now thank God 
for it, for we believe that it was His work. From the mo- 
ment we set foot on these shores, the spell of misfortune 
seemed to be loosed from our backs ; all was open, easy, and 
even inviting us to prosperity. "We met, in New York, with 
an old countryman from Selston, who told us of this pro- 
perty to be sold, and Michael and I came at once with him, 
and were enraptured at the sight of the spot. "Wood, water, 
fertile fields, and beautiful scenery — what could we desire 
more ? The remnant of our property sufficed to pay for it, 
and we soon found ourselves as well off as Nimbus himself. 
Everything has prospered. My Betsy, whose worth I 
go on every day learning, has given me four dear children. 
Jane and Michael have six, and are as happy as virtue and 
plenty can make people. We carry on considerable con- 
cerns besides our farms: Michael and I are partners in 
everything. We have flour-mills and saw-mills : we are 
both magistrates, and I am, also, colonel of the district 
militia. We can live without fear of the vengeance of land- 
lords ; we can shoot over a finer range of country than 
Nimbus ever knew. The old people are still living, and enjoy 
a hearty old age. The only brawback is that my mother 
did not live to see her children and grand-children thus hap- 
pily located, with a scope for a dozen generations of Cordens 
and Wagstaffs. 

" Who could submit to farm in England, at the mercy of 
a haughty landlord, that could here for a moderate sum 
possess a much larger farm ? It does seem to us wonderful 
how Englishmen endure what they do. A man for a decent 
farm must sell his farm politically ; he must go up to the 



472 THE HTJNT. 

hustings, and vote for that which shall degrade and impo- 
verish him. He must then keep his landlord's game, and 
sow corn for a rabble of hunters to gallop over ; and, worst 
of all, pretends that this galloping over does his crops good. 
Such is the servility which tyranny engenders. When I 
have heard farmers asserting that galloping over their wheat 
was good for it, I have asked them why, then, they did not 
gallop over it every day themselves ? But such questions, 
even, are cruel, for our own fate was a proof of the sure re- 
sult of any attempts at independence of action or opinion. 
Oh, that dark time ! There was a day when, if ever Satan 
threw temptation in a man's way, he threw it in mine. It 
was during our last melancholy autumn. My soul was 
bitter within me from accumulated injuries and insults. 
Huiri stared me in the face ; my enemy was triumphant 
over me, and the wholeworld smiled on him in the midst of his 
oppression. In this mood I wandered in Haddig's Park. 
The damp tawny leaves lay thick under foot, the many- 
coloured foliage told of the decaying year. I knew that it 
was the last year that I or mine should breathe there* 
What a curse hung on my tongue against the sensual and 
base man of power — behold ! there he lay sleeping on the 
heathery ground, wearied, it was evident, with his morning 
sporting. He was all alone ; there was not even a dog. 
Probably the keeper had led them home ; but there stood 
his gun, reared against a tree. It was close to my hand ; it 
seemed to solicit my grasp. I threw one glance on the 
sleeping monster ; one shot, and who would be the wiser ? 
But One, and his career and his crimes would be at an end. 
But it needed only one reflection. The innocence of my 
own soul was worth to me a thousand vengeances. I turned, 
and walked calmly away. Never do my thoughts rise up to 
. God, without blessing Him for the mercy of that moment. 
!For the strength from heaven, and the light of God's spirit, 
which had streamed from a mother's heart upon mine. And 
that mother's treatment — but there again was needed her 
own holy temper ! 

" Good bye, John : come and finish your days here. 
When from this peace and amplitude we look over the 
waters to you, how marvellous does it seem that you like to 
crowd upon and devour each other in your little aristocratic 



THE HTJKT. 473 

island, and do not, even while you remain there, attempt to 
deliver yourselves from the despotism of the G-ame Laws. 
Eor them your gentlemen are brutalized ;. your farmers are 
degraded into serfs and sycophants ; your keepers are made 
savages and murderers ; and your poor men, metamorphosed 
into poachers, are knocked on the head with pocket flails, 
and are imprisoned and transported. The most miserable 
Indian that reams these forests, and brings down with his 
rifle at his pleasure the deer, the turkey, or the prairie heB, 
would look with scorn on free-born Englishmen who could 
submit to such ignominy. Good bye, dear John ; when you 
think you have "clerket" long enough, come hither, and 
we will have a shooting together through the woods which 
fear no- Nimbus., and know no Game Laws, 

" "Four affectionate cousin, 

" GeOJLGE "W'aGSTATS."' 



THE TWO SQUIRES. 



Is was on a pleasant May morning that a gallant gentleman, 
Dauncey Dauncey, Esq., rode forth from his ancestral hall, 
and across his noble ancestral estate, on a steed which, now 
that horseflesh, like other commodities, has acquired a toler- 
able price, might, by a knowing eye, be valued at some few 
hundred pounds. He was followed only by one servant, 
mounted, as an ignorant spectator might deem, much better 
than his master, having the said master's great coat duly 
belted at his back, and beneath him a capacious pair of 
saddle-bags, — thus indicating, according to the simple mode 
of the times, before carriages became so common, or ever 
M' Adam was born for the civilization of the roads, that he was 
bound on a considerable journey. Mr. Dauncey was, indeed, 
" a squire of high degree .;" not such an one as might possibly 
be found even in this day, and in more places than one, did 
we deem the quest profitable, who have indeed ceased " to 
handle the plough or the goad," but "whose talk is of 
bullocks ;" but he might have presented a goodly image of a 
knight of the golden age of chivalry, — as handsome in person, 
as gallant in bearing, as bold in heart, as Arthur Pendragon 
himself, — had it not been that, although full of lofty specu- 
lations and generous thoughts, he had no decided relish for 
the shock of horses, the crash of spears, or the shouting of 
idle people; but had much rather see a young grove of trees 
flourishing in the sunshine, horses bearing home the harvest, 
or a group of merry peasants dancing under an oak. An 
education of that solid and venerable splendour which then 



TEE TWO SQUIRES. 475 

■Gnl j bore the name of learning, and which then, indeed, was 
seldom acquired except by those ambitious of climbing high 
in church or state, had opened and elicited the full strength 
and glow of a truly noble spirit, crowning it witli a dignity 
disdainful of everything mean, and touching it with aspira- 
tion after a thousand good deeds to his fellow-men 

He rode on, past many a substantial farm-house and snug 
cottage, from which came forth venerable age, manly and 
womanly youth, and troops of smiling children, with bows 
and curtsies, and, " Grod speed you, sir!" and eyes that fol- 
lowed, till the next turn of the road hid the beloved master, 
who was leaving them for the mighty space of a few months. 
He rode on, over the open heath, fragrant with the golden 
iiowered furze ; down the deep lane overhung with haw- 
thorn, bending its boughs beneath their loads of snowy 
bloom ; through woods where the clear waters ran sparkling 
across his path, and the sun cast its nickering beams on the 
stems of gigantic oaks, now clad in their fresh amber foliage 
and filled with a clamour of rejoicing birds. He had a heart 
to feel all the beauty and gladness around him ; and, as he 
issued from beneath the covert of the trees, on the brow of 
the next hill, and cast back his gaze on the wide, wooded, 
and beautiful track, all his own, and upon the fine old 
mansion showing its manifold gables and peaked roofs in the 
midst, he inwardly exclaimed, — Thanks be to Him who has 
meted me so goodly a portion ! But one thing wantest thou, 
fair scene, to match thee with the fairest throughout merry 
England ; and it shall go hard but this crowning charm is 
thine ere another winter darken thy fields, and brighten the 
happy hearths within thee." He turned his horse and rode 
smartly on, — -and Grod's blessing go with him, while we turn 
back and see, as the country phrase has it, whom he left 
behind to " keep the house warm." 

A strange fellow was there, truly — a strange companion 
for such a gentleman — for he was, in a .great degree, a com- 
panion. When we say, however, that they were two only 
sons, born heirs to two adjoining estates, who in boyhood 
had played together, and rambled through the woods to- 
gether, together had been sent to school, and thence to 
college, there is explanation enough of the strangeness of 
their after acquaintance ; yet two more differing mortals 



476 THE TWO SQUIBES. 

never were born. Dixon, this said Dixon, quondam play- 
mate, schoolmate, and now luogo-tenente of Dauncey 
Dauncey, was a tall, thin, wither-away fellow, of six feet 
two, with legs that, occupied the centre of his oscillating 
boots much after the manner of a spoon in a jug. His com- 
plexion was tawny ; his hair and eyes black, his body lean, 
and tough to the very eye ; his. skin had a dry and leathery 
look ; his arms hanging long and lank by his sides. Alto- 
gether he had the air of a tall, slim tree, that, transplanted 
by some one ambitious of a ready-made grove about his new- 
built house, stands wavering, though propped, half alive and 
half dead, and from year to year neither perishes nor grows. 
In word, action, or design, he was slow and drawling; yet 
ever and anon a sudden flash of something like wit would 
burst out of him : and there was the continual gleam of a 
placid smile about his eyes, that struck people with wonder, 
and made them think there was more in him than they had 
given him credit for. He was one of those odd anomalies — 
those queer mixtures of humanity, that you never seem 
entirely to understand ;- — a creature in which there appeared 
an easy strife between the flat and the sharp, the fool and 
the knave. — When about to be pronounced a dupe,,out would 
come some evidence of cunning, which occasioned. the expres- 
sion — " He's no fool neither ;" when about to be scorned 
for his heartlessness and want of principle, some burst of 
kindliness and good-nature struck wonder dumb. The fact 
was, he had not enough wit to take care of himself, but 
sufficient wherewithal to harm any body else seriously. At 
school the only thiugs he was known to learn w r ere some 
odds-and-ends of Latin, and a connoisseurship in cats and 
rabbits ; at the University he acquired a great proficiency in 
horses and their pedigrees, and made many valuable acquaint- 
ances with grooms, jockeys, and anglers ; and if he was not 
expelled his college, it. was not because he was very tender 
of its rules or its reputation. Thence,, however, he was 
suddenly called by the death of his father ; and before 
Dauncey returned home, had suffered himself to be com- 
pletely gulled, in a most marvellous manner, out of all his 
property by sharpers. To this time it is current in that 
part of the country, that, on one rainy day, in a village 
public-house, he lost three thousand pounds and two good 



THE TWO SQTJIftES. 47 1 

farms : the first by a wager on two drops of rain running 
down the window, the second by a bet on two bents drawn 
out of a hayrick, and the third by a race between two 
"beetles. To any other man it would have been subject of 
madness or suicide ; to him it scarcely appeared that of a 
reflection ; his sleep was as sound, his shootings and anglings 
as regular, his jokes as frequent as ever, and such a one as 
the following food for mirth and raillery for a mouth. 
"While shooting one day, his dogs turned out a hedge-hog, 
which he put in one pocket and his game in the other, that 
the man who emptied the last, on his return, might confi- 
dently plunge his hand into the second, and wound it on the 
spires of the urchin. The scheme took full effect in presence 
of the assembled servants'-hall, and was set down for a chef- 
d'oeuvre of wit. 

Such was the occupier of Dauncey' s house in his absence, 
which was to be of several months, but, to Dixon's surprise, 
was scarcely of one ; for, coming in one evening, who should 
he see but Dauncey sitting in his usual seat — his father's 
carved and high-backed chair, — dusty, weary, and melancholy. 

"Heigh, and how now ?" cried Dixon. There was for a 
time no answer ; but at length Dixon's slow yet unfailing 
pertinacity succeeded. 

" A fool, Dixon, a fool !" — I have only been playing the 
fool a little !" 

" Oho," quoth Dixon, rubbing his hands with glee ; his 
tawny features brightening up, his mouth opening with a 
grin almost from ear to ear, as he trailed his chair after him, 
and took his seat by Dauncey : " Oho, a joke ! Come, let us 
have it!" 

The countenance and manner of Dauncey showed plainly 
enough that it was anything but a joke ; yet, knowing the 
futility of attempting resistance to the eternal battering-ram 
of Dixon's curiosity, he gave way at once 

" If I must, then, confess my own folly, I thought, the 
other day, that I had found a lady worthy of this mansion 
and of your valuable friendship, Mr. Dixon." 

" Oho, oho !" quoth Dixon; " I have it, I have it , and so 
she wouldn't have you, eh r" 

" JNot exactly so," replied Dauncey. 



478 THE TWO SQTJIEES. 

" Not so ! how then ? how then ? Hast thou lost a good 
wife by some of thy scrupulous nonsense ?" 

" Perhaps so," said Dauncey ; " but let this suffice — she 
would and she would not ; I might, and I could not." 

" Come, now," said Dixon, "this is just what I like ; a 
good riddle, a good joke ! I told thee it was a good joke, 
didn't I ?" But out with it, I pray thee, for I can bear it no 
longer." 

" Nor I either," rejoined Dauncey ; " so, as you are 
anxious for a silly story, here it is. I found in my journey a 
lady who for beauty and majesty of person, is, in my 
opinion, worthy of a throne — a tall, superb, and resplendent 
woman, in whose presence the common race of ladies appear 
of a dim, dwarfed, and secondary stamp. If I was surprised 
and delighted at her person, I was not less astonished at the 
vigour and splendour of her mind. Her ideas seemed to 
now from a source of crystal transparency, and, like the rays 
of the sun, to carry light and life with them into the world. 
I think I am not deficient in information ; but 1 know not 
by what means she has grasped acquirements, and amassed 
knowledge, that have cost me years of weary days and nights, 
and the aid of the greatest masters : and yet, her years, her 
looks, the buoyancy of her mind, the courtly elegance of her 
manner, render it impossible that she can have passed 
through much toil and task-work. I own to you that I 
thought such a woman would be the crowning glory of my 
existence : and that woman might be mine, and you ask me 
why she is not. The magnificent creature is married, dim- 
med, debased, and rendered utterly worthless in my view, 
by two mental flaws — a thirst, a domineering thirst for 
power, and a sordid ambition of wealth, though already in 
possession of riches. My course was smooth enough, almost 
stranger as I was, — the fact of my presuming to her hand 
was sufficient attestation of my gentility ; but scarcely had 
I congratulated myself on the brilliancy of my prospects, 
when I received an unexpected dart. ' Tou have a large 
landed estate, Mr. Dauncey, have you not ? I love land, I 
am a perfect agriculturist in spirit, and shall stipulate with 
you for a good deal of management in rural affairs.' There 
was not much in the words, Dixon, but there was a some- 



THE TWO SQTJIEES. 479 

thing about the tone and spirit of them that I liked not ; my 
amatory thermometer fell at least twenty degrees. I replied, 
that I was not ambitious of winning her favour by my lands , 
but by those personal and mental qualities which were more 
important, and of which she could form her own judgment. 
Land enough I had, it was true, for a modest and comfort- 
able establishment. Dixon, I never saw the arch-fiend, 
flinging off the shape and lineaments of an angel of light, 
start up in all the malignant fearfulness of his infernality, 
but L have seen something like it, and my ears tingle at this 
moment with the shrill echo of the words, ' Modest and 
comfortable ! modest and comfortable ! Paltry, pitiful con- 
solations of a base-born spirit ! Does any one hear those 
grovelling sentiments, and doubt the speaker to be a fool, 
knave, or poverty-stricken caitiff ?' I replied not, and I am 
here. 

" And is this all ?" cried Dixon, in unaffected amazement ; 
" and is this all ? Why, Dauncey, justly did she interpret 
thee ; for thou art a greater fool than I suspected thee to 
be. What ! throw up an empress of a woman in a huff, 
because she loves power and splendour, and a little farming 
to boot ! Go to ; didst thou not know she was a woman 
and immensely too good for thee is she ; and now I think of 
it, I am convinced that she would suit me to a tittle." 

If Dixon was amazed at Dauncey, Dauncey was not the 
less so at this speech. Raising his head for the first time, 
he looked full upon his lengthy friend, first with a broad 
stare of astonishment, then with a kindling smile, and, last 
of all, broke out into a laugh that rung through the house 
and bent him double again. " By Jove, Dixon, my vexation 
is gone, I know not how. I am amazed at thy spirit. Thou 
win the lady — the proud lady, whose soul is set, no doubt, 
on a style of living befitting a dukedom, while thou hast lost 
every doit of thy fortune ! The great managing lady suit 
thee, who hast not a sod left the size of thy shoe !" And 
he laughed again louder than before, while Dixon sat by, 
looking quietly at him, and every now and then uttering a 
low note of cachinnation, more in amazement at his friend's 
immoderate mirth than at any mirth of his own. 

" If thou art in earnest, however," said Dauncey, " I 
advise thee to lose no time. And so be it that thou pledgest 



480 THE TWO SQUIRES. 

tny word to tell no lies, and to do nothing unworthy a man 
of honour in the case, I wish thee success, and my purse 
and equipage are equally at your service." 

If Dauncey thought Dixon was but in joke he was never 
more mistaken. At the word, up rose the man, with un- 
usual activity ; began, instanter, to put things in a train ; and 
actually, the next morning, was on his way, a " jolly wooer," 
with one servant behind him, as Dauncey had gone before. 
Many a time did Dauncey, as he sat in his hall, or rode 
solitarily over his estate, in the course of the few following 
weeks, break out afresh in laughter at Dixon's chivalrous 
speech, and at the idea of what figure he might be cutting 
at the moment ; but let those imagine his utter and astound- 
ing amazement who can, when, in less than a month, he 
actually beheld a carriage drive up to his door, and out of it 
step the identical pair ! 

We permitted Dauncey to go on his pilgrimage alone, in 
a vain confidence that he would take care of himself, but we 
must not suffer Dixon so to depart, being too bad to be 
trusted, and too good to be lost sight of. As he rode slowly, 
then, on his way, hatching in his head the modes and proba- 
bilities of his enterprise, he arrived, in the first place, at the 
politic conclusion, that, although bound to speak the truth, 
and, peradventure, nothing but the truth, yet he was under 
no obligation to tell the whole truth. In the second 
place, conning over the name, parentage, and place of abode 
of his Dulcinea, he stumbled upon the auspicious discovery 
that her father was no other than an old fellow-collegian of 
his father's, whose acquaintance had had a sort of keeping 
up by a casual meeting in London, and by a message of 
compliments passed through the mouth of some squire- 
errant once or twice afterwards. Therefore, in the third 
place, animated by these propitious circumstances, he put 
spurs to his horse, and was soon bowing his long back in the 
presence of the lady and her aged father, the sole relics of an 
ancient family. It was introduction enough that the old gen- 
tleman recognised him as Mr. Dixon of Dixonholme, and gave 
him a most cordial old English welcome, which Dixon 
assured him he should feel the highest satisfaction in having 
the opportunity of returning at his own house, — not deem- 
ing it needful, by any means, to disturb the good man's 



THE TWO SQUIRES. 481 

tranquillity b.y informing him that the son of his friend had 
no house, that Dixenholme was already, like the dream of 
Nebuchadnezzar, " gone from him." It was recommenda- 
tion enough that Dixon was discovered to be a prince in the 
art of angling, in which the old gentleman was, at least, an 
enthusiast : the visit, therefore, spun out, — from day to day 
they angled, and from eve to eve they talked of angling. 
The daughter looked but grimly on the personal graces of 
Dixon, who, for his part, made no further attempts to pro- 
pitiate her good will, than by his ordinary habits of gal- 
lantry, and by a lavish projection of those Latin fragments 
picked up at school, and ever since in diurnal requisition, to 
impress a befitting reverence on squire and clown, and to 
give a classical grace to his confabulations with the parson, 
in whose ears they were become like so many alarums, 
sounded till they had ceased to be heard. He did not fail, 
however, to drop, on one occasion, at dinner, a short lamen- 
tation, addressed to the worthy old gentleman, on the want 
of a good wife, who would have both will and ability to take 
entirely from his shoulders the irksome charge of purse, 
scrip, and command, and leave to him the enjoyment of the 
patient mysteries of the field, for which he felt himself best 
qualified. The hint was not lost: "upon that hint he 
spake," and was heard. He did not, it is true, although 
accredited as the wealthy owner of Dixenholme, and believed 
to be a most manageable and convenient sort of subject, 
escape sounding on the extent of his estate, and the number 
of his farms ; to which he careicssly replied, that his estate 
was more extensive than most men's, the soil was rich, and 
the tenants many. That so good an opportunity might not 
be lost on either side, a quiet wedding, — an agreeable sur- 
prise at home, — and, then and there, a burst of nuptial 
splendour and festivity, were projected. Behold, therefore, 
Dixon and his gorgeous bride, like the sun shining on the 
edge of a wane-cloud, travelling homewards in the old 
family chariot, by a pleasant, easy journey of three days, — 
lie the happiest of mortals, and she more and more alive to 
the pliant and available nature of her good man. Amongst 
those piquancies which served to season their conversation 
on the way, not the most trivial was the anticipation of the 
effect of this event upon Dauncey — the poor, but proud 

I I 



482 THE TWO SQUIRES. 

Dauncey. On the third day, Dixon announced their ap- 
proach to their journey's end ; and, on reaching the brow 
of a hill which shewed spread below thera a fine wooded 
valley, stretching out his hand and spreading it abroad, he 
exclaimed, " All that I now see is mine !" It is true that, 
observant of his word, his eyes were shut as he spoke : but 
although those of the lady were open, they were too eagerly 
fixed on the attractive scene before her, to allow her to 
notice the deception ; and she involuntarily ejaculated the 
intensity of her exultation. 

It was the bright warm season of Midsummer, and, as 
they descended through the fields, a busy scene surrounded 
them. Grates were thrown wide, wagons were rolling to 
and fro, and bands of merry people were tossing about or 
carrying home the hay, whose fragrance filled the whole 
atmosphere. There was an air of prosperity diffused over 
every person and thing, which inspired the lady with a sus- 
picion that money was flowing from Dixon's easy good 
nature into a multitude of pockets ; and she resolved that 
the stream should be suitably diminished. A variety of 
schemes of new and economical husbandry, of improved im- 
plements, and novel machinery on the most approved con- 
struction, were floating through her philosophical brain. 
Already the old-fashioned forks, rakes, and carts, had given 
way, in her thrifty imagination, to things of more expe- 
ditious nature ; — already the farmer had lost his free will, 
and was condemned to the predestination of prescribed 
modes of cultivating his soil ; — already the cottager's cow, 
and his half dozen sheep, were driven from the common, 
whict was turned to what, in the utilitarian system, is called 
a good account. There was, too, a curious mixture of merri- 
ment and respect in the salutations of the peasantry, which 
she attributed to the familiarity of Dixon : this was an evil 
also marked for abolition. 

But the denouement was at hand, .As she walked into the 
hall in proud self-gratulation, the first face which she beheld 
was that of Dauncey. A gentle nature would have shrunk 
from the encounter, but hers was not of that description ; 
and her words immediately testified it. " Your presence, 
sir, might have awaited a more suitable time !" " Madam," 
replied Dauncey, with a dignity and gravity which startled 




^La^n^ J2^ay$/ X 



THE TWO SQTJIEES. 483 

her, " I grieve to say, that I apprehend you to lie under a 
most melancholy deception. J f, as appearances compel me to 
fear, you have been prevailed upon to marry this person 
through false representation?., you are now to find that he 
is nofc only worthless but penniless." " "What ! is he not 
Mr. Dixon of Dixonholme ?" " He is, truly, Mr. Dixon ; 
but this is not Dixonholme, nor is that manor now his 
property." At these words a host of dreadful passions 
spread over her features a deathly hue, and shook with con- 
vulsive tremblings her frame from head to foot ; but she 
stood, and struggling fiercely with her tyrannous feelings 
for the mastery, exclaimed, " Wretches ! have you dared to 
practise upon me your infernal conspiracy ? and thou," 
turning to Dixon, " detestable monster ! where is that estate 
thou boasted of as more extensive than most men's ?" "It 
is in the church-yard," coolly replied Dixon ; " and it is 
true, most men have but five-feet-ten of earth that can truly 
be called their own, and I have six-feet-two ; and I still 
maintain that the soil is rich, and that the tenants are 
many." 

Most of this sage interpretation was lost upon the bride ; 
for the violence of her agitation had terminated in hysterical 
insensibility. Dauncey, truly grieved for the unfortunate 
woman, selfish and selfishly ambitious as she was, exerted 
himself for her recovery, at the same time upbraiding Dixon 
with neglect of his pledge. Dixon sat himself quietly down 
to see the result, only replying to Dauncey's charges with, 
"I've told no lies, Dauncey ; I've told no lies !" But the 
lady revived — started up with the air and attitude of a fury 
— rushed from the house — mounted her carriage, and drove 
off. One glance only she cast back as she departed ; and in 
that she beheld Dixon standing at the door, with a com- 
placent grin on his countenance, and his long, lank figure 
nearly propping the lofty lintel. 

Many years after this remarkable event, a gentleman 
passing near Mrs. Dixon's ancestral residence made some 
inquiries on the subject of this history ; and, strange as it may 
appear, he found that Dixon and his wife were living quietly 
together there : — he the same creature of fowling-pieces, fish- 
ing-rods, fragraental Latinity, and choice companionship, — 

" Murmuring by the running bro >ks 
A music sweeter than their own." 



THE TWO SQTJIEES. 



in all else a perfect nonentity, — his will never consulted, his 
name scarcely ever mentioned, even by their own work- 
people ; but that of Madam Dixon a word of power, fear, 
and dominion, and herself one of those omnipotent personages 
without whose interference not a road is levelled, nor a corner 
of a field cut off, nor a poor man presumes to alter his pig- 
sty ; and at whose presence, as we believe Dr. Southey 
somewhere says, the household spaniel tucks his tail between 
its legs and sneaks out of the room. 

It is suspected that her conviction of Dauncey's having 
planned this marriage was the salvation of Dixon, she being 
conscious that, if such was the truth, the greater her mani- 
fested mortification the more triumphant his revenge. Of 
Dauncey's subsequent history we have not been able to learn 
any particulars ; but we hold him firmly to have been a 
man to whom a disingenuous stratagem was an impossibility. 



THE POACHER'S PROGRESS, 



"Within twenty miles of London, in a delightful neighbour- 
hood, lies the pleasant village of Snobhain. In this village 
lived many wealthy people. The neighbourhood abounds 
with parks, woods, and moorlands ; and in the village, but 
still more on the skirts of the commons, abound also the 
habitations of a great number of poor people. Between the 
rich and the poor of this neighbourhood, however, as is so 
much the case all round the metropolis, there is very little 
intercourse. No two classes anywhere know so little of 
each other. The rich are either such as have made money in 
London, or in India, or other colonies, and have settled down 
there, as at once affording a charming country, and an easy 
distance from town ; or they are people who have houses 
and castles in distant parts of the kingdom, and occupy 
only these subordinate seats during the London season — 
that is, the duration of the parliamentary session. 

On the edge of one of these said commons, where a cluster 
of wooden houses had been erected by a speculative car- 
penter, lived, amongst others, Tim Skipton. Tim was a 
young fellow naturally full of life and spirit, and, for a 
Surrey chopstick, intelligent. It is true he could neither 
read nor write, but he had a fund of native sense, which, under 
favourable circumstances, would have made him a superior 
and successful man. He was strong, active, and handsome. 



4SG the poacher's progress. 

In all the sports on the common, such as skittles, quoits, or 
leaping, Tim was ever one of the most distinguished. In the 
work-held he was equally adroit and efficient. None could 
swing a scythe, wield a sickle or a spade, load a hay or a corn 
wagon better, or fell a tree in less time. Tim then lived one of 
the most easy and cheerful lives of the place and class. He 
was greatly admired by the girls of the neighbourhood, and 
his society courted by the young men. He was naturally 
merry, generous, and light-hearted. If things had gone 
pretty smoothly with Tim, Tim would have gone on as smoothly. 
But his very attractions proved a mischief to him. His 
father and mother had no other children ; therefore, with 
the united wages of father and son, they lived very fairly. 
But Tim was often induced to join a company at the public- 
house, where there was a famous skittle-ground, and the 
gaiety of the company there began to have a great charm 
for him. In fact, what other resources had he and his 
fellows ? They were totally uneducated, and so were the 
women at home ; therefore at home the men very seldom 
stayed, except to dig the garden occasionally, or feed the 
pig, if they had one ; but in an evening, after the return 
from the field, you might see in all these villages the men 
generally at the public -houses, and the women solitary at 
home, or gossiping, if the weather was fine, at each other's 
doors. 

Tim, too, got married pretty early, and within six years 
he found himself the father of no less than five children. 
For a time he and his wife had lived with his father and 
mother ; but the old people were becoming infirm ; therefore 
they turned out, and took a very small house in the wood 
just by, which was let rent free, on condition that the tenant 
saw that the gates leading in and out of the wood were kept 
properly shut, and damage from cattle on the common pre- 
vented. Tim had now seven of family to maintain out of 
his twelve shillings a week, and a rent of £9 a year to pay 
out of it, too. It began to be tight work. There was 
little surplus to spend at the village ale-house and skittle- 
ground ; and Tim was soon obliged to run on a score there, 
while his wife at home was more and more complaining of 
the difficulty of getting bread enough and fuel enough for 
the family. .Neither Tim's temper nor that of his wife grew 



THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 487 

any the better for this state of things. The honeymoon of 
youth and early marriage was gone for ever; and what was 
to supply its place ? The wife, with her five children about 
her, began to take in washing ; and when Tim came home, 
instead of the quiet dry hearth there used to be, it was 
now damp with steam, and wet clothes lay about or hung 
about, and there were crying children that could not be at- 
tended to by the occupied mother, who was again about to 
add to their number. Tim would fain fly off from this scene 
to the Holly-bush, the ale-house ; but there was a score on 
its walls, and nothing in his pockets to wipe it out with. 
But Tim was not worse off than the majority of his neigh- 
bours. Penury was the condition of them all. And now 
came winter. It came early and fierce, and stayed long. 
Intense frosts and deep snows began it, continued through 
it, and ended it, or allowed it to end only in March. Through 
all this time, the whole body of labourers, with the excep- 
tion of some half dozen, were totally unemployed. There 
was nothing doing by the farmers but thrashing — and that 
was done rapidly by machine — and foddering the cattle in 
the yards. The men sat at home or lounged about, as 
disconsolate as fowls on a rainy day. But on what were 
they to live ? Their summer's wages only sufficient, and 
that barely, for their summer's livelihood — for this long 
dreary time there was absolutely nothing. The men went 
out, when the weather would permit, and pulled down rotten 
branches from the fir woods on the commons with long 
hooks, for fuel, or stubbed up the stumps of the trees which 
had been felled. But for the greater part of the time the 
ground was buried in snow, or was as hard as iron with 
frost. But coal they could not buy at all, and without 
wood they must perish of cold in their wooden houses. 

In these circumstances what were the people to do ? 
Their fathers would at once have gone to the parish for 
relief till the weather broke up again ; but now, there was 
the new Poor Law staring them in the face, and the great 
Union at some half dozen miles distance. If they went to 
ask for temporary relief, they knew, for they had tried it, 
what would be the answer ; it would be, ' : If you want 
relief you must come in." And if they went in, what then ? 
"Why then their little furniture would be all sold up, and they 



488 the poacher's progress. 

should be ruined for ever. When spring came, how were 
they to re-commence housekeeping ? How were they 
to repurchase sufficient furniture for even their simple 
wants ? That which they had, had been bought out of the 
careful savings of unencumbered youth ; now they could 
with as stern a struggle only find food for the day. It was 
in vain to reason with parish officer or guardian. Guardian 
of the poor ! gross misnomer ! The poor Law was, at that 
time, in the heyday of its political economy wisdom, and had 
but two words — " Come in !" 

But so well did the poor know that that " come in" was 
a "take in" of the most fatal kind, — a " take in and done 
for" affair, that they were prepared to endure any thing 
before they would resort to it. They were not prepared to 
sell their whole stock and chance in life for a temporary 
accommodation, and to become pauperised for ever for a 
winter's assistance. They therefore stuck to famine and 
their wretched houses, and cursed the hard-heartedness of 
a Christian country. It is not to be supposed, that, as they 
saw, on winter evenings, the carriages of the rich roll by 
them, with blazing lamps, and servants well wrapped up in 
many-caped coats, and knew that light and warmth and 
luxury were abounding in their houses, that this tended at 
all to promote ideas of justice and gentleness in their minds, 
or to embue them with the charity inculcated by the Christian 
religion. " If they don't care for us, why should we care 
for them ?" was the language that began to be frequent 
amongst the poor of Snobham ; and the eyes of the young 
men began to be turned towards the woods and parks that 
lay all around, and the idea of hares running there in 
thousands that might produce miracles of peace amongst 
their crying children, became very predominant. 

There were, in fact, strong bands of poachers on foot, 
and Tim was not long in joining them. He was young, 
active, full of spirit in whatever he undertook, and he was 
now strongly embittered against what he termed the heart- 
less gentry. Tim was soon, therefore, at the head of half a 
score who used to frequent the Holly Bush. They pursued 
the game in the night, and having nothing to do in the day, 
could thus take plenty of rest. By this means the cottages 
on the common were chiefly supplied with food ; not, in fact, 



the poacheb's peogeess. 489 

with a constant diet of hares and pheasants, but with the 
cash which is brought from the London market. "Why 
don't gentlemen who have game-preserves take the same 
precaution against hungry pheasants as they do against 
weasels and hawks, and, as they cannot shoot them, see that 
they are employed and fed ? But the consumption of game 
to this extent did not long escape the observation of the 
keepers. Severe as the weather was, they began to watch, 
and were not long in meeting with the poachers, but per- 
ceived that they were too strong to engage with them of 
themselves. Speedily they were strengthened by forces 
calculated to cope with the forces of the poachers. They 
met in the woods, and fought. There were two of the 
keepers' party shot on the spot, and others wounded. The 
rest made their escape ; and whether any of the poachers 
were wounded, it could not be ascertained ; but none were 
killed, for none of the peasantry of the country round were 
missing. The proprietors of the different estates were now 
on the alert. The woods were more assiduously watched ; 
the number of watchers was from week to week aug- 
mented : but this did not diminish the consumption of the 
game. Hunger, deadly and increasing hunger, was in every 
peasant's cottage, and there was no relief except the ruinous 
relief of the Union, which was like buying ease in an ago- 
nizing disease with a death draught of laudanum. 

The poachers, therefore, only extended their marauding 
expeditions to more distant scenes for awhile, till the 
nearer keepers were put off their guard, when sudden 
inroads were made into their territories again, and whole 
cartloads of hares swept off in a night. Again the deadly 
encounters took place, and the whole kingdom was horrified 
by the relations of these in the newspapers. They were 
read and exclaimed over as horrible, and laid down again ; 
and perhaps some Joseph Hume, or John Bright, in 
parliament, asked the Home Secretary if he had noticed 
these things, and what remedy he proposed, to which he 
gave a very misty answer : and there it ended. The war of 
the woods went on; terrible deeds were done, and the 
spirits of the rich and poor were embittered against each 
other ; as if they were natural enemies, instead of the 
children of the Divine Parent, and the followers of the same 



400 



THE POACHER S PROGRESS. 



Christ. This warfare had progressed so successfully before 
the winter I speak of was over, that the expenses of the 
landed proprietors for night-watchers, and defence of their 
game, amounted to a sum that would have kept the poor in 
the greatest comfort in their respective parishes ; and these 
poor, in the meantime, had come to regard these proprietors 
as tyrants, with hearts of stone. The woods were now so 
well and strongly watched, that nothing but the most 
bloody conflicts could enable the poachers to carry on their 
practices ; but carried on they must be, or their families 
must perish. The cry on their hearths was still, " Give us 
bread, and give us fuel, or we shall be frozen to death ! The 
cry of the Union, and the guardians of the poor, was still, 
" Come in, and we shall sell you up." At this crisis the 
minds of the poachers of Snobham became more dark and 
fierce than ever. As they returned at midnight from un- 
successful reconnoitering of the woods, where they perceived 
their foes in great force, and the sheep would start up from 
some sheltering hollow, and scour away in alarm, a fellow at 
Tim's elbow whispered — 

"And where's the difference between these four-legged 
animals and those that we have gone after to-night ?" 

" Difference !" said Tim, to whom such an idea had never 
occurred ; " Why man, these are property ; nay, the deuce, 
Jem, I'm no sheep-stealer, nor mean to be, come what will." 
" But why not, Tim ?" retorted the man. " Live we 
must ; and if not on hare, why then on mutton, I say. 
Which are better — men or sheep ? Is it fitting that our 
children die of hunger, and these fellows, who refuse us a 
shilling till we get work again, have hares in the woods, and 
sheep in the fields, and we must neither touch a tuft of fur, 
nor a lock of wool ? no — the devil — say I." 

Tim Skipton revolted at the idea of being a sheep-stealer, 
though he actually gloried in being a poacher, and thought 
it quite heroic, and a prosecution of true justice ; but as 
they went homewards, he found the arguments of his com- 
panions gradually taking the other side. Three days after, 
the whole parish was startled with the news, that three 
sheep had been slaughtered in a croft close to the village, 
and the bodies carried off, though the skins were left be- 
hind. They turned out to be the butcher's ; and he being 



TEE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 491 

a very active and zealous man of business, was soon seen, 
attended by constables, and armed with a search-warrant, 
paying a domiciliary visit to the huts on the common. They 
had passed through two or three of them, when a sudden 
idea seemed to strike the butcher, who was a jolly, well-fed, 
and well-disposed man. When they were in the next cot- 
tage, he went straight into the pantry, and looking in at the 
bare shelves, he asked the wife, " "Where are your provi- 
sions ? Where is your bread ? Where are your potatoes ?" 

" You see all on those shelves that we have, sir," replied 
the poor woman, whose thin and ghastly features bore tes- 
timony to the dreadful truth of her words. 

"What!" said the butcher, "You don't say so! Have 
you nothing at all to eat in the house ?" 

"No, sir; nor have had these two days, (rod knows 
we have not had a mouthful of bread this morning, nor 
know where it is to come from." 

" And have you no fire this terrible weather ?" 

" Oh, no ! how could we, how can we, have fire, when 
coals are half-a-crown a hundred, and the snow is three feet 
deep' in the woods ?" 

" But why don't you go to the parish, then ? You must 
not be lost." 

" But we shall be lost if we go there. They will sell up 
all our bits of things, and then what is to become of us in 
spring ? No, sir, we may as well die this winter as another ; 
and the sooner the better, for there seems to be no bowels 
of compassion left in this country ; and we are looked on as 
an encumbrance." 

" But it is rank madness, woman," replied the butcher, 
" to talk in that way. You ought to get food, any how, for 
yourself and children." 

" Well, sir," said the woman, meekly, " I suppose those 
who killed your sheep thought so ; but we can neither get 
ours that way, or by going to the Union, to be turned out 
at spring, without house, home, or any stool to sit on." 

The butcher seemed struck with a serious thought : he 
went on with his search from house to house; but the 
scenes which met him made him only the more astonished. 
There was not a house with a loaf or a fire. There were 
women wasted to skeletons, and meagre men sitting, sunk, 



492 



THE POACHEii S PEOGBESS. 



as it were, in the paralyzing stupor of despair. There were 
children, like little old men and women, famished, past 
being clamorous, and wearing the patient aspect of ap- 
proaching inanition. There was fever doing its burning 
work on couch and in bed ; and its fire was the only lire to 
be found. 

The good man, horrified with what he saw, hastily took his 
leave, abandoning his search, and hurrying home took a 
piece of paper, and wrote down, " Subscription List for the 
Starving Poor ;" and headed it with five pounds. With this 
he set forth, and proceeded to the nearest house of the 
wealthy. Here his story excited the utmost wonder and 
compassion ; for, take the heart out of its conventionalities, 
and it is a human heart still. The butcher's appeal was 
instantly and everywhere responded to ; and while the sub- 
scription was going on, a piece of meat, a loaf, and a quan- 
tity of potatoes, were going to every cottage ; and a load of 
coals progressed from house to house, leaving at each a sack, 
to cook the mealy potatoes with. The whole village and 
neighbourhood seemed roused, as it were, out of a dream ; 
and food, fire, and warm articles of clothing, were mustered 
up in great quantities, and distributed ; and different gentle- 
men commenced the daily manufacture of soup for the poor. 

The misery was alleviated. Those in fever were attended 
gratuitously by the surgeon, and everybody breathed all 
the more freely for having given to the heart the refresh- 
ment of humanity. Time went on ; the stolen sheep, and 
the dismal discovery of the destitution which the theft led 
to, were less and less thought of. Everybody spoke with 
delight of the benevolence of the well-to-do people of Snob- 
ham. All were supposed to be cured, and set right. But 
was it so ? Far from it. The winter continued, and drove 
its reign into the very heart of spring. The Union, and 
the guardians of the poor, had never altered their system ; 
the farmers had not yet set to work any more labourers ; 
the coals were burnt, the subscription exhausted, and the 
cottages, with the exception of the daily dole of soup from 
the great houses, were as destitute as ever. The wealthy, 
living in the remembrance of their benevolence, forgot that 
one act does not dissipate fixed causes, any more than one 
pill will cure a chronic disease. They thought all was right 



the poacher's PROGRESS. 493 

now, because they had set all right two months before ; and 
because iu their own houses there was no pressure of dis- 
tress to remind them of such a thing anywhere else. 

The parish of Snobham was, therefore, once more unex- 
pectedly electrified by the news of a desperate encounter in 
the neighbouring woods between the keepers and the 
poachers, in which three keepers were killed, and five 
poachers captured. And these five poachers turned out to 
be five of the very cottagers of Snobham who had been so 
generously relieved by this very winter subscription. On 
this, nothing could exceed the indignant amazement of 
the public. " What !" the very men so generously 
assisted by their neighbours ! — who had had coals, bread, 
potatoes, meat, and soup ! What ! the very people so 
kindly attended to by the doctor, and clothed by the ladies ! 
What ! all that linen, those stockings, and those blankets ! 
Ungrateful wretches ! hopeless, incurable generation ! The 
poor of Snobham were given up as a most worthless race, 
destitute of every grateful sentiment, and too proud to go 
into the Union, but not to steal. 

From that hour the stream of charity at Snobbam was 
frozen for ever. No one thought of recommending the parish 
authorities to adopt the plan of a little weekly relief at this 
season, till the weather broke up : — none but a half-pay 
officer, who bad lately come thither, and he recommended it 
in vain. He made an effort once — ha wrote to the Commis- 
sioners at Somerset House to relax tie rigour of the law, 
and grant permission to the relieving officers to give out- 
door relief. It was the worst period of the reign of those 
Somerset House monarchs ; when the wisdom of political 
economy was strong in them. The reply was sl^rt: the 
request could not be complied with — it would be a cangerous 
exception. 

So, misery and poaching went on. The five men wbo 
were concerned in the affair in the woods were transported 
for life ; and Tim Skipton, who was of the party, but escaped 
detection, now deprived of his old companions, fell by neces- 
sity into the association of others. These were a worse and 
more desperate set. They were great frequenters of the Holly 
Bush, where they caroused till late at night, and then issued 
forth in a statd of brutal phrensy, capable of the most san- 



49 is THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 

guiuary deeds. The spirit of revenge was strong in them on 
account of their comrades, as they called them, who were 
transported. These men included in their number the 
sheep-killers of the former part of the winter. They were 
guilty of still more — of various burglaries in different parts 
of the neighbourhood ; and Tim Skipton, now driven by pro- 
gressive circumstances into their constant company, was in 
for whatever they might undertake. The once handsome, 
light-hearted youth, had now a dark and downward look. His 
whiskers and hair were thick and wild ; his dress resembled 
that of a shabby keeper — his features were stamped with 
the indefinable character of the scamp. At home a swarm 
of dirty children and a wife grown wiry in her temper, and 
acid in her words, from constant suffering and contention 
with hunger and hungry children, and the refusal of all her 
rich customers to give her any more washing, made him as 
surly and glum as the darkest night on which he pursued 
his now-established practices. There were blows and curses 
between the married pair, kicks and cuffs to the screaming 
children, that were enough to make the place loathsome to 
the vilest creature in the human form. 

After one of those scenes, Tim Skipton sallied forth one 
night, and in less than half an hour after was down in the 
depths of a wood that skirted the most sullen portion of the 
sullen Mole. A ridge of a sort of clayey sand rose high on 
one side above this hollow wood, and the dark, sluggish 
river, ran at its feet. In the hollow descent of this crumbly 
sort of cliff, ancient and ivy-covered trees spread a double 
gloom. But it was a place where the gang usually met, as 
at once near and obscure ; and here they had agreed to meet 
to-night. Tim Skipton, excited by the quarrel at home, and 
by the spirits he had taken in passing the Holly Bush, 
strode on through the Egyptian darkness of this wood, 
without the care usual on such occasions. The dead sticks 
beneath his feet cracked as he passed, without his noticing 
them. He pushed through bush and briar, and felt neither 
rend nor scratch. He had now reached the brink of the 
river, and advanced towards a huge hollow tree, where they 
usually made their rendezvous. A low whistle, which he 
gave when a few yards off, was answered in the same man- 
ner ; and, coming forward to the entrance ofthe tree, whose 



THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. 495 

interior cavity was capacious enough to hold half a dozen 
men, he was suddenly seized by the collar by no feeble 
hands. 

" Hallo ! there, Joe ; hallo ! Jem ! hands off, no joking 
there : I am not in the humour !" 

" Nor we neither," replied two voices at once, who he 
recognised as not those of his comrades, but of the keepers. 
In an instant down went his gun : he grappled with his 
antagonists. There were two of them, who had simulta- 
neously seized on him, he being well seen by them, who had 
been watching some time ; while he, coming suddenly into 
the pitchy darkness, could see nothing. But with an abrupt 
whirl he flung off two of his assailants, and grasped the body 
of the other with the strain of a boa-constrictor, to raise him 
from the ground. But his opponent was not so lightly over- 
thrown, and the struggle became at once violent and despe- 
rate. The two heaved and writhed to and fro, a raid oaths 
and curses from the fallen keepers behind. The bushes were 
trodden down, the dead boughs crashed around them, and in 
the next moment down went tne combatants together — it 
was into the river ! There was a desperate splash, and all 
was silent. 

Several dark forms advanced, and gazed intently from the 
gloomy bank, on the gloomy and scarcely-visible stream — 
but there was no further sound or motion. 

" They are drowned, by Gr— d!" said a deep voice ; and 
then there was another pause, and then a mingled clamour 
of tongues full of wonder and terror, and the party rushed 
hastily away up the wood. 

The next day a strange rumour began to run about Snob- 
ham and its commons, — that a keeper and a poacher were 
drowned in Sandy-side wood, and the wife of Tim Skipton 
was seen flying across the common in that direction, followed 
by a troop of shrieking children. The current of the popu- 
lation speedily set in in that direction, and before an hour 
was over, the bodies of Tim Skipton, and a well-known 
keeper, famous for his muscular strength and dare-devil cou- 
rage, were brought up by me drags, ciasped as firmly in each 
other's arms, and with the same air of defiance, with which 
they had, no doubt, plunged unexpectedly together into the 
sullen Mole. 



49G the poacher's phogeess. 

Here was the end of the poacher's progress ! The man 
who, with moderate wages, and a humane spirit of necessary 
relief in the depth of winter, might have lived a respectable, 
and comparatively happy man — had lived and died thus ; 
and bix families, including the men transported, were thrown 
permanently on the parish for full support, when a partial 
assistance, bestowed in the season of absolute need, would 
have left these men still able and willing to labour for them 
whenever labour was to be had. 



the jksd. 



London : 
V ilson ard Ogilvt 
bkinner Street. 



C 73 89 




"fei 4 - 








• » * A 

^$q i*? 1 e ffX^Sg^jpTi » *£V ^ Neutralizing agent: Magnesium 0> 

Treatment Date: April 2009 




( Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
it:Mc 
April : 



PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724) 779-2111 






















1 fr ^ ^gyR: * 4 °* '-life *°* 



P^ V 







H EC KM AN 
BINDERY INC. 



MAR 89 



N. MANCHESTER, 

INDIANA 46962 










%/ 



